Crows mingle where the vegetation’s scarce.
They group above eroded garbage dump.
The stench of blackened roots; the land is fierce.
What god has given them such place to romp ?
The rain revisits some eroded squash
and fermentation stinks to heaven, high!
Excitement in the black and flashing wash
of wing and orange beak; then stymied cry!
Oh, death’s a celebration they conceive
as cells are woven; broken down to one.
They gather strength and grovel to relieve
their earth’s corrosive treasure in the sun.
They fly above their desolate desire;
above the filthy fumes; the smoking pyre.