I
The city of birds built on fertile land
Is now turned grey
Feathers fall as fast as Autumn spreads in Pennsylvania
On the corner of Meadowlark and Falcon
The dying ironweed and branch-infested pool are what remains
Of old and familial neighbors now escaped from Pennsylvania entirely
In the wilting seasonal transition of flocks flying back to our
Deep, sultry red Japanese maple tree in the front yard,
Unannounced neighbors unpack and stake claim of the old, faded driveway
And hurriedly transform the corner of Falcon
The sweltering sizzling of the rays and the cacophony of pests by the pool
Cawing, crowing, creating conversation
Remind me that with every block party, winter is further and further away
Gripping their talons into the walled-off kitchen and spreading their beaks to the deserted yard
They cut off the branches of the pine tree that
Conjoined their yard to ours
So they could renovate and remove any traces
Of the road we used to be
II
Families of white-tailed deer daintily graze on the only free plot of land along Trooper Road
Connected to the finally fixed 422 and
Placed suspiciously between the average Audubon
Middle-class family, no single-story house is lived in
By teenagers that claim they are sick of the birds
But only make it as far as West Chester
Or fly back home like Eastern Phoebes with invisible yarn
Tied to their ankles
Only an off-white, but now
Gray with borders of dying green vines,
Shed remains
Surviving to taint Trooper Road
A man, to which I don’t know his race, age, or even how he liked his coffee
(or if he even liked it at all,
but I imagine he might have liked the new café down the road)
Lived on Trooper Road
We’ll call him Paul
(because he deserves a name)
Paul was normal by Audubon’s standards
Walked his small to medium-sized dog, if he had any
Went to his 9-5 and stayed overtime, without pay of course
And put food in the bird feeders when
The cardinals, crows, and mourning doves would pick at the dirt instead of fly
On an average Audubon Tuesday afternoon after work,
With the sky in overcast as the sun usually reflects off the clouds
Casting a glare onto the frustrated drivers getting off of 422
In the cluttered trees lining the hills and creeks and rivers and bends
Of the National Audubon Society
Birds still flew like they always seem to do
(as I like to imagine it)
Paul locked himself in his house on Trooper Road
(I like to imagine)
And the neighbors noticed because the communion
Of silently all-knowing acquaintances that plague Audubon never notice the brilliant days
But they sure as hell know every dismal one
The Trooper cops disrupted any semblance of recovery
They try to talk Paul out of his pleasantly decorated front room
With miniature porcelain statues of his favorite breed of dog
In order to hide the disorder in the deeper rooms of his house
Down the street
422 was taking kids to school on bright yellow school buses
And adults to Philly on their daily hourly drive to work
As they continue to ignore the flock of birds scattered from Paul’s driveway
