Bird on the Hanging Tree

clawing at the crimson branch
and holding through the storm
of wild, throbbing screaming flesh
of old and young alike
of wool and dirt, a little bird
a little slowly understood
yet wholly free and holding still
among the body maelstrom

pound the mud and raise a toast
build nothing
know nothing
but round and round they go
call it a dance floor
call it a flesh fair
call it a warzone
call it a celebration
meaningless but for the battle
won on a muddy proxy field
a spectator war that everyone sees
a little bird fallen from the hanging tree
but round and round they dance
feathers in their hats and blood on their feet