Buzzard

Why dare I task thick clouds on their own turf With smug like immortal engraves my wing; The rain— for my feather to wade and surf like lightning is sweet and thunder but Nerf; I, the pilot and the plane, soar and spring and my tinted tiny wings duck and swing and beat against the wind on its own turf and kiss the sky with lying lips— a fling. Because the ground revolves for naught but shame, And grows only to fall by its own hand, To wreck little birds, to burn and to maim. Not the gravel nor ocean is a friend Not man nor his hand that kills for no aim He burns us all while he dies where he stands.