Clouds and a copter hang in the air,
Clouds whittled white from 10 o’clock sun
Is blameless, barring the black kite orbiting under
Like a roving mole on the run.
The clouds are otherwise grey and dense
Much like the Copter with some insignia painted over.
The copter chops, chops, chops
As if clouds were a heap of cabbage
To be diced for Indian curry cooking.
The copter chops, chops, chops,
Nothing falls, no broken feathers or turds,
Clouds keep retaking position;
The dowager kite, scooping for meal
Wings spread apart; talons curved backwards
Train eyes on the moving deal. `
~ Saranyan Bv