When will they see
the hawkish types are no more
able to fly than they are loving
of the earth and her animals
scampering on two legs,
swimming deep, flying on a flap
of any kin, of any breed
with pulsing blood and thoughts
of open pasture and blue sky and
peace based in love for sisters and brothers
with the same blood; the same mother watching
matricidal fratricide again and again
and again, children flailing without learning the secret
whispered in her wind
moaned in her shifts
echoed by her current
falling in her rain
so politic and briny