If
it’s rugged could you call it. A bird cage. The sun beat like it wasn’t new.
The dusty hawks stood still. Red-Tailed. With shoulders. Fat bee and bee things
kicked up in our ears and (under our skirts). The sun shocked our skin that was
and wasn’t new. Secret corners bore mammals with backs curled up escape. At
last responsibility—vanquished. Vanished. Banished mammals with useless stink
glands. Feathering. Drugged on rugged cage. I held my daughter at angles—telling
her animal names. Pulling her close from dusty stone eyes. Hawks and turkeys.
Tiny waterfall so ornamental by rugged hawk cages. The animals turn to the wall
and rest, relieved. At last, the animals say,—Nature vanquished.
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