Seething as the season slowly swells,
she's here to settle scores, her
call to arms blown through hollow bones.
Beware: her rival's screams might shred
your dreams of wholeness, set drum-guts
pulsing; imagine it, bodies damp with
gore, teardrop eyes beaming at her
foes in their death throes, snapped backs
and boiled insides. Now she stands
conducting, antenna waving orders,
stick fingers pointing to the corners of
creation. Trust her to paint her talons
with contempt for taste, dangle diamonds
from her ears, her crow-black crown
hard enough to crack a hundred
mandibles. It almost looks like gloating,
but she's earned it. Soon you'll feel the
thrill of revving wings, mornings hung
with hope, loud with waves winding
ever skyward, wild with one idea.
