Poetry?

Here's some more whatever-it-is. Next to roads, I like birds!

Birds of a Feather
They always say,
"Birds of a feather flock together."

They draw lines between feather flocks
And crossing them is odd.

Feather flocks have their own community,
They sing the same,
Eat the same,
Fly the same.

Has anyone seen where they don't draw lines?

Colors mix.
Blue bird, yellow bird.
Green bird.
Red bird, blue bird.
Purple bird.
Red bird, yellow bird.
Orange bird.
Green bird, purple bird, orange bird.
Muddy bird.

Muddy birds forget differences. Flocks of many-colored birds flying into the sunset.
Flocks forgetting about feathers.
Flocks flying for flying, with friends and relations and sing in harmony.

I wrote this next one in remembrance of a true summer event.

Crow Feathers
I used to have about five crow feathers on my dresser.
They were huge, and one summer they were everywhere.
For me, they were symbols.
Symbols of a strange sadness that welled inside me
To an ache, a strange longing
The kind that stirs in you when you hear a song.
And yet I loved their glossy, inky black smoothness
And the white streaks running down the middles.

This one is more of a quote. I wrote it one Sunday when I saw a picture of this woman.

Tsunami
"This is what I lost," she said.
And she held up a picture
Of a little boy.

This one is definitely interesting. I'm afraid it's a little too interesting to explain.

Deer
Nosing all the way to our car window,
Who fed you, that you have this awful trust?
Don't you know hunting is permitted for another mile
Or so?

I see you hiding in that empty lot.
Come out.
I know you're there.

I wish everyone could be with me and see you.
I want to share that blessing with them...

Well, like I said, I do have a science test tomorrow...
Saro