chested
with a blue sheen
the hummingbird
scans her bushy kingdom
the mockingbird
floats up and down
sings a syrupy set
on the telephone wire
a hawk wheels
with a thousand-foot gaze
from the isolated
land of thermals
while those metal birds
that fly in the gods’ sky
plow through clouds
and wound the air
are not alive
though a stranger
to earth might be fooled
by the trail of white breath
and the growl
coming from
their steady silver stare
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