Rabid mockingbirds dive-bombing
into empty schoolyards and mechanic shops,
flying low through canyons of Chinese food and tortillas,
these rapid streaks of brown darting
around Friday dusk-ridden bodies and a man
on the sidewalk sweating soaked in a T-shirt
donated from the First Baptist Church.
Or are they bats pining for the sustaining bite
searching the remains of the stands and garbage
for something worth saving,
using their radar to hone in on the facts.
Or are they angered doves alighting from one roof
to another in the night mistaken for sinister
things when everywhere there is dancing music and
a tiny girl getting out of a maroon minivan in a pink skirt
saying bye to the driver, lunging forward toward the bright lights.
Passing through half streaks of half evening light,
I’m not sure I think I hear one yell:
You there, go home.

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