bush hog

so tall and thick
the grass and trees
and weeds and vines
and flies and bees
evaporate into the dust
of spinning blades and
windy gust
of air so hot
it cooks the day
and spinning round
a turn
I splay
into the nest
of fluffy fresh
new chicks at rest
and killing two
and watching three
escape with mother
to the tree
I sift the rubble
of their place
and find one
under just a trace
of eggshell
and I
take it
home.