Distortion

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The Starling

There's a bird up there in the eaves of the house.

Small head moving back and forth.

She is watching;

Sometimes cocked to one side

She is listening.

How much more than us she sees. We

the Master Race, going about our daily work.

Her sharp pale beak opens and closes

with noisy chatter.

What does she say? Do we care?

Does it matter?

I am walking looking upward.

Entranced, fascinated.

Something soft squelches beneath my feet.

One small, lost, featherless pink creature

lying on the pavement, mutilated.

People hurry passed, they don't see

but they see me.

Let them look. Let them stare.

It's not me that's odd, it's them. I don't care.

So far removed.

In their environment, but not of it.

Her black blue, shiny body.

Pale speckled, wings open in eager flight.

When our race has reached its night.

When all hairless creatures that walk

on two feet have gone forever.

Will those shining flying creatures

be Masters of this earth?

Until then, the great destroyers

hurry beneath their watchful gaze.

I too, who trampled departed life

beneath my feet, walk away

different, but not indifferent.

 

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