Week 15, Freewrite 2

My mother came home to peel shoes
from worn feet, to sink to bed, to water
her county-fair roses. Rather, she stumbled
on a dead bird in the living room, right wing
swaddling left should across belly like some
bow, some retreat, some submission. Had
it fingers, I imagine they would be graceful
and smooth, slightly curled at the last knuckles.
Did it fly in through window or basement door,
through your carelessness or mine? Whose
fault to blame for some feather-wearer’s
trepidation, trespass? Trace your steps to
Tuesday last, when you heard some peeps in
the chimney, some bleeps or beeps, cell phone
or smoke alarm? No kamikaze mission, this one
must have flown from door to window, living
room mantle to bookcase lined of all those
classics mom told me to read. Where was it, that
crown met end? Where feathers did not shield,
yet carpet muffled, like some interjection, intervention.