SQUAWK

The pale grey sky
Is polka-dotted
With Rags of black cloud
Back lit and smudged.

Imagine a stone City
Bathed in this morning light
A rosy-fingered dawn
Playing amidst its battlements.

Trumpets sound brash within
These lithic canyons;
The sirens of
Emergency vehicles…

Or is it the squawking of Crows
On power lines or Errant
Owls hooting on their
Winged escape from the day?

And are those battlements
The rocky defiles
That rise up against
This gathering morn?