Lockdown Travel Diary, Poetry

#49 Magpies

They line the verges, the magpies,
Of the path we must go down now.
And in stepping past they are aggravated,
Throwing their heads back; 
We must lower our heads under 
The volley of their calls until we are bowed
With eyes fixed on the dirt.
There are so many we can't count our fortune.
And how they gouge our ankles, tear our clothes;
we cannot run with the lungs of the dead in our chests.