The Birds

See the dawdling of the city birds.
Beaks crookedly clicking and clopping,
they can slop bread but never the fine seeds.
Their feathers are coated in the greasy
film of the gutters and stale air.
They are crafty and desperate.
They are lofty and disparate.

Now see the birds of the lake, crying
for their lost brothers and sisters;
never envious of the bustle. Rustling only
with other nature, never the nature of humans.
See them squee and fly free
above the crips air--
forever more finite than before.