Walking in the woods that day in back

of Quarles Street as the pair of osprey

swooped and dove overhead, just past

the spot where I saw the fox last fall, I paused,

and there, between a vined hulk of rusting car

and a stagnant pool where cans and plastic bottles

clustered, under those trees

that sheltered once the old McCormick house,

I found a body, maybe four days dead,

its head bent to one side, torso spread

on the leaf-composed forest floor, now

bursting with late spring.

“This is strange,” I thought and gazed

with wonder more than dread. 

(Yes, there was a smell, as bodies four

days dead will have, but that 

seemed unimportant at the time.)  I stood

and looked, and soon began to ponder

what had brought this body

to the woods, and why it fell just here.

I turned to poke around a bit, and found

a green beer bottle not much exposed

to wear, a pair of glasses and, nearby, a spatula

crusted with egg, though I could not tell if these

belonged to the deceased.  I stooped down then

and examined the corpse— a male, and in the prime

of life, draped with heavy jeans and a dark t-shirt,

stomach to the ground, tattoo on the left bicep

that read “Sean.”  I could find no other

clues, no hints to his identity or cause

of death, and left the pockets for police to search.

Then the spirit came upon me and

I said, “Sean, arise.”  But he did not

get up.  Still, I reached out to touch

him where he fell.  I turned him over,

the stiffened bulk, and found the purple flowers

that his fall had crushed.  And then,

right where hip had met the ground,

I saw an orange.  Taking it from leaves

his weight had squished it into,

I rubbed it on my shirt and peeled a half.

I wedged a section out and bit,

and juice burst in my mouth like wine.

A drop ran down my chin,

and I wiped it away with the back of my hand.