Parliment

Feathers—ruffled, re-ruffled.
Black coats pulled tighter than necessary
(or not tight enough, depending on the wind).

Squarks from the left
no, the other left.
coos from the right.

Between them,
a space.

Unclaimed.

What is to be done,
my noble—
my no-longer-noble—
my conveniently noble friend?

These strangers
(are they strangers?)
chasing gold,
like fools.

It is no concern of ours.
(peck.)
A beak taps the bench.
Once, twice,
the bench does not object.

We are safe in the sky.
(we say this often.)
Let the ground-born have their soil.

We have the sky.

Squarks.
Louder now,
or nearer.

We have watched them name dirt,
watched them drain it,
call it empty,
then dig for more emptiness.

And now
they look up.

They cut down our trees,
move nests,
move our families.

All this
for glimmers,
for glitter,
for gold that does not shine.

We steal it.
(an old bird sings)

A crime! they caw.
We do not interfere.
(we repeat this, also often.)

So what is to be done?

What you speak of
is not our nature.

I do not see it as such.
(perhaps I am not looking correctly.)

Caws from the benches,
from the branches.

The choir hushes.

Parliament considers,
or circles.

They do not need gold.
The old crow continues.
And, noble friends,
Let us not forget

That mischief
has always been
our nature.