the birds know about the pandemic

the sweet song shrill
in the morning evening night
time is no more to them than
a faulty construct,

a recognition of the flawed balance —
things have never changed
yet the years spill sacred sanctuary
for the right lesson learned.

goddess among us, and leader, and death
she rips a rotted page
another story yet untold.

sear the flesh and mark us empty
of lost land and liberation
alive in the time forgotten wastes.
a trickle in styx flows the wrong way,

the leaves curl up, consummated
carefully bereft of matter
their reach no stronger than
quiet hops in grass.

a portrait turned down
the bedspread gone stale
the feathers fly apace
until one day the wonder moves on.