The Thing with Feathers

A late May frost overnight
and in the grey light of dawn
breath hangs visible in air
still and cold as autumn.

From the square a block over
a cacophony of crows
sounds, tormenting a fox
into short, harsh shrieks.

From the east a chickadee, all
hollow-boned hope and feathers,*
calls and calls to its echoes
rebounding from the blank

walls of beauracracy
gray and brutal in the west.

*When Emily D. was wrong, she was very wrong.

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
This entry was posted in Art is theft, Charlottetown, Chickadees, Emily Dickinson, John MacKenzie, New poems, Poem tweets, Poetry, Poverty, Protest poems, Social Commentary, Sonnet, Spring and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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