hunched and chilly in the ploughed field
feathers moving like black and white soft dominos.
There is no technology that tells them to move out
hit the road, beat it or get lost, they just know
to lift off when the ground kisses their feet
with lips subtly colder than the day before.
My phone goes off, its fake cricket ring tone
startles what seems to be a million feather dusters
beating the air clean of blue. It’s only the drug
store calling to say my prescription has been renewed.
I smile wryly, can sense a headache coming on.
I turn and slowly walk back down the side-road
to my parked car, avoiding goose dung on the way.
I know there is a good chance that some
will make it past tomorrow’s open season.
Decoys gleam on my back seat in the last slant
of afternoon sun, real enough to pluck.