The descent

Gravity struck the crested game
buckles, descends a crying shame.
Panic struck, the life force drains,
feathered fowl the swain he blames.
Sodden turf, a forceful landing
brothers in wings no longer standing.
Cold draws in, the final flutter,
buckshot ridden,
no cough, no splutter.
Ceremony, stewing pot,
food for thought as herbs are choppped.
Famished beaks left to nest,
food for one
no more, no less.