Birds. If I see one in the flesh, they are seagulls or pigeons firmly grounded near the bay. They wouldn’t stand a change with the quick rotations of the current propellors. The swooping birds roar constantly, hovering above, glaring below.
Once they land, they sleep until they warm up and whiz around a two square mile space.
I count seven right now.
Those on the ground, subject to the birds’ glare. The speakers blare warnings to be in by 10pm. Too bad if you are eating pizza, eager to slip away and silently protest the state of affairs.
The cuffs are too painful, the loneliness of the trek unbearable.
The wings will swoop and illuminate shadows.
The serious caws, the thick plastic barriers pushing away the air, the ashes of yesterdays rage remain. The burning eyes, the red and blue.
Time to tuck my knees to my chin.
Is this happening again.
Connective Cube 
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