Weathervane


The cock swivels in the wind,
rasping a sound between crow and caw.
As it turns, its golden comb catches
the morning sun and glints like a beacon.
It moves unsteadily, as though pondering
which way to point.

The cock is incoherent, but I get the message
it emits from my neighbor's roof.
It holds its sculpted head high, its tin chest
puffed. Its talons grasp the support pole.
Its predator eyes scan the street.

When the wind pushes the bird
from its perch, a crowd gathers to watch
it rise and soar--transformed from clucking fowl
to majestic eagle. It circles our heads,
unstoppably; it swoops and spins and climbs,
its glaring feathers unfurled. The cock's antics
arouse the crowd,I among them. Its wings
carry it sunward,so high now it nearly
blots the light; its triumphant calls shake us
like nearby thunder.

All around us, shadows emerge
and when the darkness has us surrounded,
we hear trumpeted commands
from the heights of its hubris; we fall
into formation; we march.

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