thank the likes of Stravinsky
and countless folklorians
for fantasies for symphonies about
feathers blazing red and orange.
the oldest of the Flighted
burn;
the brightest are pinned and
plucked.
for us, god’s math contorted, erased.
natural selection tripped up.
Is it better to be the bird who flies—though coveted—
followed?
or the blessed unsightly
who, given wings, must
waddle?
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