Wild Birds

It’s wild but the birds are on the rise.
Fold up a bracket and it makes a hill
To grapple up, ascending to the prize.
(With just eight teams, the bottom stayed more still.)

Invert it; it becomes a goose on wings
That stand up proud in a victory V
Or two. A goose can promise things
Lie in wait if you just trust gravity.

But falling is for chokers and for roofs
That fall in on you or that just collapse,
For rain that cuts off games, for fouls, for goofs,
For jaded eyes who’d just as soon take naps,

The drink cans in a rage hurled from the stands,
Cries on deaf ears, the fly that never lands.


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