Birds / Sheikh

A goose from birds
They sit on chimneys
And they're in my planet -
patched with pieces
Old newspapers.

Cold Earth
flowers trampled.

Though the windows are closed,
I can hear them screaming -
dirty like November, mud color.

Months closed,
North winds.

A pushy bird
they will not leave for winter;
They'll stick to--
pecking and plucking
The fragile remains of me.

Just until spring.
Just until spring...