there are two birds perched atop a sky wire,
flecks of drab brown against a blue canvas,
shuffling side to side down and up, sharing
seeds that they hoarded from the ground.
there are two birds perched atop a sky wire,
and one would take flight now, but the other
peers at it with eyes that say nothing, so they
stay there for a little longer, content in their
corner of the world where everything is safe.
there are two birds perched atop a sky wire,
and now the sidewalks are not as quiet as before,
now there is the bustle of jammed cars and
the guttural cry of carrion-dwelling vultures.
now the sweetness of open-blossomed dawn
is drowned out by gunshots and screams.
now the serene silver-dotted skies are broken
into jagged glass by sobs that echo through the houses.
now the river no longer curves with spring
and the banners of shops flutter homeless.
there are two birds perched atop a sky wire,
and they say they will leave, soon, very soon,
but one of them clutches onto the metal
and understands there will be no mourners.
one more carcass, one less smile, what
of it? so they cannot leave to let all
these memories catch and burn like the fire
that has swallowed half the city.
there are two birds perched atop a sky wire.
night comes and one of them bursts into
a song that has been praised through the ages,
replacing ordinary feathers with ruby and emerald.
the other stays silent.
