How the Mynahs Forage

A lone ranger. Puffing up his black chest 

like a conceited child to call the rest.
Soon they arrive: one, two, three tarred feathers
knowing the grains’ somewhere atop a stray

tray. Dark cloud forays into darker clouds.
Stray grains invite a growth of storm
or is it rude beggars clawing over dropped
coins? Only the leader’s arrival splits

the flock. He is a monarch striding, pecking
his subjects’ feathers to cleave a path
to enthronement. Only, the Bully arrives,
cleaner uncle whipping hurricanes of cloth

and vile words. The mynahs flee like a ghost

seeking nirvana in the heavens heaving
its own wrath.