Birds in a Steeple
The jargon well-fed birds proclaim In the uptilted steeple Resounds in the forsaken church Charred black and fireweed purple;
Their clamor is an off-key scream, Obstreperous in mid-air, Yet loudest in the wooden arch Where crowded starlings are.
Abruptly the assertive whirrs Echo in the empty pews, Nor perish where parishioners Lie stiff in Sunday clothes.
Eying his profitable fruit The spoil of thieves, a farmer Counts unrecoverable loot On wing from spire to dormer.
He shoots them, but their rapid cries And fluttering unnerve his Equilibrium; as they rise He profanes the monstrous service.
The birds fly off in pairs, and turn In perfect echelon, Voicing their easy unconcern: Begone! Begone! Begone!