The Fray
The sparrows and cardinals
squabble -
hedgerow turf wars.
Sudden low evening rain.
Do the trees weep, or does the sky?
Anger seeps into drywalls
fills eyes with a restless acrimony.
Yesterday the sun was a brightness
on the wrists of small boys.
They played out a violent video game,
a shrill virtual savagery;
strife is merrily cast into the consonant air.
Garden blooms seem to badger each other
for a nook of sky.
Tonight I hope the owls keep blinking.
I hope tomorrow,
the Dalai Lama, or a politician
will actually say something wise.
Perhaps, a news anchor
will tire of his daily sneers?
Will owls stop questioning?
Wait! Is this a fresh morning breeze?
Are there hand-washing angels, do they rise
now within us to scatter and flay,
lather all into amity;
dissolve the moth bones, the spiked wings,
of that darkly spawning fray?
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