what are they living for
there’s no flock
no herd no pack
no governing

random
isolationists
together alone
for what do they wait

in that distance
they can’t quite see
squinting
were sights ever there

when they were young
but now, without a leader
queen worker drone
from where comes the sweetness

as their beaks open wide
their flightless wings flutter
honey harvested
is dribbled from tourists passing by

do they feel the pursuit of death
are they hiding from it all
in their shrinking world
shape shifting in plain sight

each new morning, they swagger big
getting small change
from dog walkers
who can’t walk fast enough

the squatters with fresh coffee
lay claim to a cafe table and chairs
loudly toasting that they live on
before being asked to leave

yet only side step the shifting sands
while chance determines all claims to power
taking turns flicking
a cardboard game spinner

In this heat they all come out
continuing to blow
matchstick ships with tissue sails
through the air by long winded talk

many co-mingling realities, connections
and contradictions roll in with the tides daily
swamping this urban scape observed
from the safety of my Duck Blind