turn of the crew

We hear them a-honk downwind
before seeing their disarray
as if group will trumped instinct

and yet, their intent is clear
as they circle in ragged clusters,
change course, and finally

plant themselves in the far field
among severed stalks of cropped corn.
We hear them mutter, settle

and by the time we reach them
find an installation of identity
each neck standard height above stubble

each head turned, statue still, facing west
and our oncoming steps. Even
though I know what will ensue,

I am unprepared for the flap of wings
roaring them, lifted as one,
back to their southbound flight.


the buzz

AND NOW – for something completely different! In case you have the mistaken impression that I write only serious poems.

Where DID they come from,
this invasion of fat flies
flitting and darting from window
to sash? Our normally quiet
evening abuzz with slap
and squish as my daughter
grim glint growing in her
swung and struck, savoring instinct
and skill of this new-found sport

to kill [SWAT!]

            one [SWAT!]

                     after another [SWAT!]

We charged and swatted, quite besotted
with the challenge to chase and destroy
each buzzing fly
frantically lunging
against our ceaseless
assault upon battery;
bodies dropped
in drabs, then droves
from window, table, doorjamb, wall
a pile of corpus delecti mounting
with every hit.

But WHERE did they come from?
That day – and that one only –
placid peace lost to raging revolt
a change so alarming
for the next many days
it was all the buzz.