Last Words of a Deer Decayed

In precious autumn afterdeath, my headerupts into a swarming cloud of flies.How many snow melts before I'm bone flush?—spinal column without language, pelviccradle in the grass? How many raindropsuntil I'm sinew-stripped and marrow-dry?—scattered mouthparts in a field of swollenearth stars, particulate organic dustlaid to entropic rest? In my next lifelet me be whatever thing needs being.River floodplain, roadside thistle, perhapsa windblown mote of sand. And if I amdeath destined, kill me in a birdsong spring.Ask the worms to leave my ears for last.