The Funeral

In Ozark guise, the ancient rite renews;

As chicks scuttle for imagined cover

When the hawk's cold shadow passes over,

Or the Chosen cowered behind bloody doors

When death stalked Egyptian night,

To this fearful humans' tribal huddle,

In ritual solemnity, the mourners gather in.

In guileless mock of mourning clothes,

In unschooled pastor's artless words,

In broken hymns on untuned tongues,

They lift up thanks to flint-hard gods

That death has touched some other.