black bird wing beats
an oscillating fan whoosh overhead
twisting, the formation alights
high in the pines
chirps mingle
with pine cone picking
imitating the tinkle
of tiny snapping icicles,
or miniature wind chimes
the flock clears a tree
then moves on
with military precision and discipline
the birds will carry those seeds for miles
carrying them across rivers and mountains
they will deposit them in distant fields
on verdant hillsides
and, in all probability,
on the shoulder of my new shirt
those birds are stooges,
unwitting pawns,
and I am the thing shat upon by the unwitting pawns
Micro-Writing 