The Birds

We've ceded our domain, the sky,
To land-creatures, ape-descended men,
Who, in imitation, first with fabric,
Then with smelted, hammered ore,
Fashioned wings that--fused to engines--
Roared to scaly mackerel heights.
Now those bottlefly bellies, sun-glistered,
Rush where passerines once free-reigned;
Few feathered clouds and ether-crowds
Astound the earthbound mammals' gaze.
Only trashbirds, you might call them,
Have adapted: crows and starlings,
Common pigeons, sparrows, gulls,
And the vernal perky robins.
Chitter-chatter, peck up breadcrumbs,
Filth and feed-seed from our lords,
Despoilers of the field and forest,
Drainers of the marsh and slough.
Survivors of the over-building
Rarely sing, but grackle harshly,
Nest in traffic light pole cubbies,
Dun their color, dull their sounds.
Shroudbirds who a blight portend?
The wood thrush piccolo-trills less often;
Heard less, 'dee ditties and hoots of owls;
Less seen, the flashes of scarlet aigrettes,
Of goldfinch golds and green jay greens.
Too quickly the outer sphere is emptied,
Made lifeless, a solid pure blue glaze;
Too soon the heavens will be unbirded,
Except for logos on passenger planes.