the sky is a bowl full of feathers and stones

Birds nest underground,

tapping Morse code

in the sewers,

scribbling out music

with icicles for pens.

The sky is heavy, quilted out of

steam. Eagles,

balancing on mountain tips,

bat at it with their wings

and try to keep it up right,

but it falls over their heads

and there are Eagle shaped holes

in the ozone.

A whirlwind of meteors

is drawn to the earth

like water to a drain.

The birds make helmets of feather

and bone.