A tribe of birds gather, drab, on my neighbor's roof.
Clawing shingled ledges, they squat single file
on power lines, in the gut of a morning fog.
Furtively, the fowls scatter like a winged cluster-bomb
at the alert of a squirrel's frantic scampering;
making cats, framed in window prisons, mad
with chattering angst and spasmodic tail gestures.
The sky-dwellers sink in globular rank;
feathery filings of iron urged
earthward to magnetic ground,
hunting manufactured fescue grass seed.
Gorging themselves on fanatic pursuits
for pride-spawned, plush lawn contests,
they are slanderers of horticultural integrity;
the prey bird of yard work and vegetable husbandry.
The squadron of hollow-boned, short tailed kites
maintains a frenzied beak feast as it surveys
all lots along the perimeter of the culdesac.
Like lawn locusts aiming to plague a grassy crop,
their swarm falls faster; descending quick of flap
and squawking in sharp poultry laughter.
An ornithological food orgy begins
as scaley feet merely scathe the tops of low foliage.
They stalk worms and grubs oozing fat with muddy protein,
but gather no seed; for none has been spread over
my clovered yard, thick with chickweed and dandelion.
Every night the neighbors pray their grass will grow.