They

They hide in groups, flitting,
In a muster of leaved canopies.
Withering, charts maroon forests;
Droves of these feathered things,
Unapologetically taking sharts
On scores of unimpressed victims,
Spent airily.

Streams run dry as scales
Scintillate by dawn.

Reflected retorts; appealed,
Marked by depraved gas.

Advertisements