the flight of forty flocks

in the walnut tree is a rioting cloud
of wings and beaks, incessantly loud
and screaming hate in remotest hours;
I do not know where they were hatched,
by what peaks, or from fated powers,
but I do wish they would head back,
flood the sky in one great gout –
a winged army on the rout – a
darkening branch grown free and flung
into the heaven’s furthest rungs;
but still, I have heard it said,
that men and birds will squawk til’ dead,
In either case, on any day
I prefer a living squawker
– far away.

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