The teeth on the saw grinds against the bark. I’m at the top of the tree with my claws dug in deep. I see the men with their BANDANAS laughing. I hear their car radios playing music loud and drifting. My home is yours for the taking. But not because I gave it to you. I do not wake up early. I do not catch the WORM. You come in my house with your suspenders and your cigarettes and your bitching and I listen from the tree tops trying to take pity, but my wings are tired and I have no sky left to fly into, so the only emotion left is passive indifference. Hunger. You bitch about insurance and PAYCHECKS and cheating lovers and traffic. Your phones wail. Airplanes sketch poisonous vapor trails. Buildings sprout in ill-conceived pandemonium. You are the great spreading city. You are the rivers of cement. You are America unleashed. I am not the walrus, I am the SPARROW KING. I am the banana peel you slip on. The pink morning when you’ve been drinking. The sun is tossed over my head, the moon is juggled by a dark jester. Stars glisten and coruscate then fall to Earth as diamond rain. The forest shrinks by little degrees. Every cut-down tree. Every missed symmetry. Every SUMMER CAMP leads to my demise. Every zip line is a dart in my spine. I’m roosting in your fevered dream. Your narcotic night. My nest is made of your detritus, gum wrappers and tabloid magazines, marijuana and knives. Coffee cups and Billy Joel songs. My only recourse is to sing. I sing for love. I sing for me. I sing for you. But I do not sing for US.
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