The road might have taken us anywhere but
instead we are surrounded by birds white birds
black birds all are forced out of metal with
gyroscopes and grease they manufacture their
myths of predation I feel like I’m even more drunk
than I actually am as I watch these engines
integrate in swoops of sonic energy halted within
the magnolia shadow where squirrels are formed
from earth and fencing my soul resides outside
in the loamy garden not in the newspaper columns
where war is exfiltrated and terminates as sport
not in the sad burning electron streams of broadcast
the bird machines will now proceed to eat my
organs as the rocks roll slowly back down the slope.
Photo by Richard R. Schünemann on Unsplash
