There are nine or ten of them, with their
mottled feathers slicked back, sullen and shifty-eyed,
loitering on the planted patch near the highway tunnel,
watching the cars go by like a bunch of
teenagers with nothing to do.
Now and then, one of them pecks the grass
and sways slightly, as if he’s stoned and mellow.
The leader, gobbling orders,
bobs his neck in time to a hidden rhythm,
like heavy metal drifting up from the
roadway, clanging raucous into tiny turkey ear buds.
Motorists gape, but the birds stand with practiced
indifference. They only care about gang rules
and working on their strut.