When gliding through our old and rusty skies,
You filtered out the wheezing, blackened air;
A century of progress built on lies,
Now captured in the feathered down you wear.
The smut and ash that billowed from our hearth,
Concealed the dirty secrets of our past;
So, when you flew no more and fell to Earth
You kept a distant record that would last.
For decades, you were kept in see-through tombs,
Your sooty memories hidden in plain sight;
Until we thought to gauge our antique fumes,
By judging how your forms reflected light.
When future selves repeat what we have done,
How will they judge the tapestry we spun?
Horned Larks from The
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