Feeding In October

We laugh with mouths like crows, gaping screeches
into cold air. Oil slicks cutting through autumn like
steel through water. Easier to laugh than to cry, a cadence
of moans amplifying into shared sky. Beaks wide and split
left to right so no one could ever tell the difference
between smile and grimace. Six eyes point north
and we fly—seek something to laugh about.

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