Three perched adjacent
Talons curled against the tar-black wire.
Eyes unstable, blinking arbitrarily
Complacent in void and victims of tire
After a long night’s flight.
The rumbling of engines and screaming of brakes
Sway the sweet cable
And the three gentlemen wake,
Agitated by the morn’s mating call.

Four, five, six trickle to the tiny twitters and tweets
And the enigmatic heat
Rising from the sagging string
Like swirling steam up a mug of coffee
Or flying children off a blue-chained swing.

More men flock and ten, eleven, twelve
Sit to a dock beginning to delve
Into incessant conversation
While the first three stay seated still
As if they had always been, always were, and always will.
The sun, too used and worn to supply,
Abandons her Earth, slewing goodbyes,
And bombing behind tears into the dirt’s womb.

One claw rips rubber
Red, yellow, blue yarn revealed.
Currents unsealed and glowing waves
Transfer through each hair, ear, and nail
Each wing, beak, and tail,
And in no sequential order do they
Plunge towards cement
Off the torn tavern tight-rope.

And maybe some revival is viable
Some hope of recovery,
Some idea of discovery,
But the singed feathers
And electrifying dreams
Are run-over by rolling wheels
And the light in high-beams.