Bitch, Bitch, Bitch

What is it you’re trying to say?

Are you approved to speak

For those wind-blown trees

Or denuded branches?

Are you capable of explaining

Why the wind is driving you crazy

With its turbulent whipping

Of the white shirt and yellow nightgown

On the clothesline?

And while you’re at it…

What gives you the right to screech

At the dark clouds

Or the watering ditches full of dead leaves

Especially that old model truck rusting in the field?

Permission…

That’s what it’s all about

And

You’ve none

No authorization to squawk

At the Coke can in the irrigation ditch

The white cross marking the crash site on the side of the road

The decaying Jungle Gym in the widower’s yard?

Isn’t it time you looked in some kind of mirror

A stagnant pond’s reflection

A piece of chrome not yet infected with corrosion

And asked if your bird talk is enough

Or if you

Us

Everyone

Would be better served

If you just flapped your wings

From tree to telephone pole

And carried on to the next county

Like any considerate-noisy-crow would do?

Now I’ve said it

You don’t mind if I howl a bit now

Do you?

It’s a hound’s right, after all.