The down I pluck from the neck of the curlew, eddies,
and whirls at my knees in the twilight wind from sea,
kneeling in sand warm in the hand.
Do you want to do it right?
I'll tell you, he tells me.
At the edge of the water on the stones,
a transverse cut just below the sternum, the forefinger
and middle finger, I took off my ring,
forced in end up feeling and following
the curve of the ribs.
Then fingers arched and drawn slowly down and back
forcing all the insides up and out toward the palm
and heel of the hand.
Firm organs well placed and very warm, save the liver.
Finally, scouring back toward the vent
the last of the large intestine, the insides string out,
begin to wave in the lapping waters of the bay.
The bird has no wings, feet or head, he is empty inside.
The rich body muscle that he moves by, the wing beating
muscle fastened to the blade-like high breast bone
will be our meat.