Sunday, April 04, 2021


What we call a murder
sweeps the skies around the water tower,
ragged black shapes that fill
the spring air with sharp-edged sounds.
Some say it’s a funeral: somewhere below
a feathered form lies still, broken
by a speeding car, left to die.
Killed by flu or suspicion.
Shot to death for just being a bird.

Books Available
The Day of My First Driving Lesson
Country Well-Known as an Old Nightmare's Stable
High-Voltage Lines
Knocking from Inside


Ruth said...

There's such a menacing quality to your description of these birds!

Ruth said...

(And yet they are the ones being menaced. So as I reread it I see the menace is entirely elsewhere.)