Stilled by a mid-summer chill,
and soaked by pelting rain,
the starlings watch
in somber silence.

A cautious wind
shoulders dry elm leaves,
as clunking boots
crack through open air.

Dark, iridescent
wings flitter, bent upwards
while a father whispers
a silent prayer.

Soldiers carve
through narrow streets,
as power lines hiss
with growing malice.

You’re one of the good ones.
You never make a show.
But the preacher swore
they’re coming for us,
so you can guess where my ballot would go.

You’re one of the good ones.
You’re not sassy or loud.
But honestly, why call it marriage?
Your love: unnatural; your vows: untrue.
Hey, at least I voted. You should be proud.

You’re one of the good ones.
You’re not flaming at the heels.
There’s plenty of work
in the city, or out of state
But have you thought about how I feel?

You’re one of the good ones.
There’s no need to gripe.
Don’t you see, despite perception,
we are all shrouded tight
in the tarnished stars and tattered stripes.