The nubs left behind by the splintered branches, make it easy
to cling to the tree, fashioned to hold in the talons' hollows,
unwavering they perch in the northeast wind, above the grain fields,
beyond the walls, below the misted echelon

A world turned upside down, 
reversed without correction
from any brain

"The self-aggrandizing pricks doth protest too much, methinks,"
I rage, after being shaken and speared, as I go ungentle into 
that good night

They await those who will await, to while away the time
without song or whistle, no lilt, just lift in the updraft,
where to feast is heavenly, to digest and shit divine

a squadron of bottom feeders twerking their way to the top

cc: CC 2022