Sonnet #316

To love a wild bird is to love without
that love returned for birds are scared
of us, at best, or steal what we might share
Because we love the way they fly about
The place: they sing and paint the sky
But will we sacrifice for them? We will
Put out seed perhaps, or plant a hedge they fill
We keep the pets in at the fledging time;
Do we let the bugs swell in number?
They eat the bugs -- They need them --
Do we let the dead wood stay there
and fill the grass with flowers? When
mosquito sinks her tooth we spare her?
Birds eat them. They need them. So do we?
Would you dare allow the blood to spill for free?

Sonnet #315

Indifferent to the fascist state, the wild pigs

come before the morning twilight, to eat

among the food packaging left along the street

They have no natural predators, these pigs

Perhaps a car might strike them, or a hunter

With a strong gun, or a trap, but once they gather

In the fields, there's little left around to bother

And they wander where they will. Never

do they think of order, never do they think

That buildings can be made on purpose

By beings just like them. They sniff and sink

Their jaws into the detritus, and relish those

bits of food cast out between our teeth, our drinks'

melted ice pooled. Indifferent to fascism imposed.

Sonnet #314

The spirits of the night take feline form
Or perhaps a rodent, either way, they move
Where their spirit moves them, and they love
Where their musk is ripe. I hear the storm

Before I see it, the flush of birdsongs in the dark
The stars that dance between the clouds
The streetlights mute and hush and proud
A spotlight on every avenue, a chorus lark

The sunlight curtains all the narratives of night
I hear the storm before I see it, where lost
children wander in the street, unbroken bright
And the drifting papers of the world, the cost
Of doing business in a neighborhood, that shite
That blows around, and where's that storm? Is it lost?