When all animals have died
even the ones in books
grow frightened, their eyes
like wormholes. Their spines
not so much broken, but the hide
abraded and peeling. The gutters
filled with debris,
plucked feathers, old yellow tape.
No one was there
to hear their last song.
And in between the last pages
were two old brown leaves
speaking in a language
only other brown leaves would know.