Prancing by Hiram Larew

Grackle me

            those slick-spots.

Trash take the squawking

            and like me so black colors flecked

            or muddy eyes-feet

Take over.

Sidewalk my branches more

            and peck whatever’s nothing —

            the tossed away or soggy flick —

            as if clouds were piled high-metal shines.

As if I was coming too —

            my cackle calls rough flouncing.