The starlings
fell in great
sweeping arcs
down in pen-lines,
into the rusty fields
outside the town.
These birds with
broken eyes,
bursted hearts
fell as morbid
rain in the midafternoon.
Their cloud
reminiscent of some
Airborne Toxic Event,
somewehre far off.
Their dense blackened
flock-a Gorey sketch.
Their taxidermied bodies
lying dormant in the
degraded corn stalks.
A poor ornithologist's
dream, as they rained.
In the streets
caught in
16 mm film
their victim-bodies
lie slumped
in the median.
Harsh reminders
as their ashen descent
crashed in
foreign wavelengths
to our lands.
Flying creatures
no more,
I gather their souls
and pin them up
one by one
on wooden wall mounts.
Their peppered,
smooshed feathers
flying broken in
the downdraft.
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