The Propaganda Factory: or Speaking of Trees

Black Skies The sun bottoms out and they rise again, air-tumbling whorls, screaming four-letter words. When our backs are turned they go straight for the warm blood, dying their beaks in our carbon dioxide, clicking their beaks like mad scissors. Joseph says their magic is in the feathers, he calls them quills that ink the skies. I say, strange they bleed cold. But, Ah—respite, he with the bow and arrow, he with the eyes in the back of his head, he with the illusion of time.