Hillsides mottled green and brown
Pulled and fringed into redness
At the edges;
Geese follow roads, not instinct
As blue-green ducks splash messy
Into fluids;
Blackbirds fill cupboards of trees.
Sparrows flit singly and bounce
On brilliant air;
Sandpipers find stoned homes;
Pigeons float under bridges,
Gray flights of fear;
Arrogant crows pick at roads,
Feathered investigators
Pecking fresh death;
Brown trees spiky, silhouettes
Empty but for bulging nests
Full of old hope;
Green trees heavy with new growth
Patiently waiting their turn
Like school children;
White trees, striped, cling to rock cliffs
Just a foothold on hard life
For ones so sweet
Cattle graze on far hillsides
Content with wet morning grass
And oblivion;
Blind men build tall metal trees
On high peaks, seeking signals
That never come;
And tragic hawk soars high,
High above them all,
In fear of nothing,
No one,
None.
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