Black Elk Listens

I suspect birds
are spelling out signs,
would we have the time
to connect them.
Thousands of windshields
pointed toward the sun
cannot blind the cloud god.
And the ants only steal
as a favor.
We should walk a foot
in their hole.
Not that neon
is the curse of gasses,
but spare me
from your fast food wars.
All these screaming
cell phones in the wind
make me long
for the company of rocks.

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I'm a writer living in Massachusetts.