A Song and Dance of Peculiar Sound

A swirling mob of necrotic feathers and cousins of Poetry’s past
croak and caw at the top of Wildwood.
They rule the roost, raining their new age dubstep and ancient drummings down upon the valley.
A bush warbler in the undergrowth squeaks in nervous anticipation,
while tiny cold blooded eyes dance in the weeds next to me,
making more noise than their cosmetic nimbleness should allow –
the smallest sounds seem titanic.
These ballerinas of death swim in pairs,
sounding like arrows that were sent dancing through thick boggy air,
past old growth trees in a far gone age,
under banners that have rotted away under the pressure of progress,
with non-lethal intent present but apathetic about their outcomes,
looking for a warm patch of air so their effort can be nullified –
not too unlike those they fly above.
Their songs are coarse but their courtship is compelling.
The iron town of human convenience holds their homes,
and gifts them a dowry of everything the light touches,
so long as their song and dance persists.
I have no where that needs me, I have no where to be,
so I wait for my sweat to dry and a feather to drop at my feet.