they come in pick up trucks with rattling trailers

swoop in unannounced and spread their implements over the cracked concrete

ball caps pulled low, handkerchiefs over their mouths and noses

i’m sitting here in my chair staring outside at the damned birds chirping in the bush

they are so happy and content to sing their songs about string and eggs or whatever

the men come and the machines in their hands roar to life, belching plumes of black smoke and whipping up whirling dust devils

they don’t look for trash in their path, they just pulverize it, sending sprays of paper and bits of aluminum cans in the air while the machines make horrible choking noises for a brief moment

like the redcoats, they march in steady lines, the riding mowers forming the initial grid, the weed whackers smacking the tree trunks and curb, the bush trimmers like the beak of some lovecraftian nightmare come to life

the birds fly up into the higher branches and scream profanities down at the workers who move on heedless of the insults

finally the lone leaf blower, booming and echoing down the breezeway, sending debris and trimmings into the sky like a tornado of pollen and pollutants

and as they pack away their weapons of warfare against nature, having established man’s domination for half a day or so

those damn birds come back and fly into the bush outside the window

chirping and singing, happy to have found new tufts of paper and trash to build a nest

or whatever, i don’t speak bird

and i don’t believe they speak english

so we have a nice language barrier as i tap the glass and flip them off and they hop and whistle back

but as i stare out at the freshly manicured lawn festooned with clippings and shredded trash

i wish i did

wish i could fly high into the air and join one of their in flight acrobatic routines

but they don’t have coffee or pretty women in sun dresses that the wind blows against their curvy frames, giving tantalizing teases of what lies beneath the thin fabric

so i’ll stay on the ground with my mug and a view

with my trash strewn lawn and the smell of exhaust hanging in the air

with the lawn crew dressed for war

they can have the bushes and the tree branches

flying bastards with their hollow bones and vacant eyes

watching me watch them and trilling a warbling little ode to the bald guy and his cup of black water trapped inside his cage

fleshy limbs and inability to fly

maybe i’m the pet and they are the masters

maybe

i don’t speak bird so i don’t know for sure

who’s to say