How did the stray wings
sweep into our kitchen?
Were they out nesting,
attached by garage,
waiting to rush us?
Or was there a fissure,
unknown to our people,
focused, as we were,
on some big mission?
A hole or soft spot
unanswered ’til now?
Invaders lurked,
flew without notice,
launching a hunt for abundance.
Among the frantic
they sizzled
over scone sentries –
tall stacks standing guard
from a platter.
Then avians surged,
helter-skelter,
to heart of home.
I hear a songstress nocturnal,
or chirp of a sparrow in light.
Hymn of immortals
breathing mimesis,
Caedmon, more theories,
song of creation and eggs.
But the birds in the kitchen,
once cornered,
elude us,
must be ousted
by art, craft, or force.
O Youth!
Gloom clouds ’gainst sea blue,
vermillion infinity, open embrace.
Invert your brooms!
Sweep airy gledes!
(The strategy, frankly, beguiles.)
Try harder, wood spoons,
a fusion of worlds.
But the sons do know better:
Today, not Armageddon.
A cynic is left without words.
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