asunder
ovenbird Clutched
in the fingers
of a just-waking tree,
a precarious eyrie,
skillfully constructed
from sticks and
seaweed and
moss. A sanctuary
of genetic memory
studded with trash,
because
even here
the human world intrudes,
insists, and spoils.

Caught
in a tangle
of branches
and brambles, just below
the bowl of broken
eggs and waiting mouths,
the severed wing
of a gull, feathers spread
wide as if for flight,
with no beating engine
to lift them
skyward. Above:
a nest. Below:
the carnage the nest
necessitates.

Above:
the future.
Below:
the flesh the future forages. 		260329
what's it to you?
who go 		blather
from