#8 of 30 (Easter Morning in Flatbush)

Through the still city chill of morning air
the stark, circling sound of seagulls flies
through an open, third floor window pulling
bodies from shallow rivers of sleep.
The sounds– unexpected, misplaced cackles
are fingernail orchestras playing concertos
across a concrete chalkboard landscape
and conjuring the semi-awake into imagining
tableaus of birds who took a wrong turn
in migratory patterns
birds who look down at the grey, blue streets
and ashen rooftops with myopic lenses,
seeing only shimmering mirages of endless
watery oases;
birds who have eaten their fill at a buffet of
discarded, contaminated fish market guts
and in the midst of their mercury high forgot that
the Flatbush air belongs to the screaming crescendo
of sirens and clambering shouts of children.
These birds, gulls without a sea,
may just be confused creatures,
they know something about Brooklyn
that we don’t.


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