Conversations with Oxpecker


In the stalk of night
On a windy knoll,
The apex of a red storm
I meet Oxpecker.
He is monolithic
Like the hulking blue moon
“Where is the skulking
Crow roosting?”
It echoes
In all the Lord’s halls
“And how might I
Assume her plumage?”
He retreats at the query
Recoiling, withdrawing
Snarling and braying
Mewling like a bear bitch
The sky draws near,
Red and wicked
And the crow flies away.

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