Revolution in the Sky

There, there again—black against the blue—

the same two sky birds at it;

the wide-winged hawk aloof,

loafing on the wind, above the roof-peaks,

proud of the fear his shadow stirs

scraping over the open-hearted hills;

and pecking, poking at him the crow

(if it is a crow) careless of how

he looks or sounds, raggedy,

harassing his unflappable majesty,

nipping at his underbelly, driving him out

of his cerulean realm. The brass of the bird!

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