Every thirty minutes
your flock
descends upon the yard
for a few moments
always moving
stalk to stalk.

As if you must
file reports
about the world
beyond the ugly wall
that sets firm
a boundary
between public
and private land.

Not that you’d care
or if the wind
would stop
at this manufactured line
rising skyward
and out into space.

Or that I could tax
your wings
for using my air
you employ
to express your ravings.

copyright © 2021 Kenneth P. Gurney

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