The Geese

that drag a ragged chevron through the sky, whose check assesses all the land correct, these geese detest us near their nest, reject all men with hissing tongues. It’s obvious why: reports of boys who hurled bricks onto a clutch of eggs. In grief, the mating pair of parents starved themselves. Birds anywhere will find such threats. Their fear is my fear too. Alerts light up my phone. Some afternoons, the news cuts in to show a helicopter’s feed from high above another school. How could one feel at ease? These boys, the bricks they use—the geese observe. They know our breed of hell. Those parents, do they starve? I would.