as if just following orders—
only sometimes
a few of these
strident young pheasants
seem instead to destroy them.
Bowdlerizing strip mall farmland
like unoiled halftracks; to them,
form annoys function.
Their hackled crows
and annoyed, dusty cackles
proclaim that sound won't follow sense
the way future echoes present—
even where it must,
and even when it doesn't.
