A Friday Poem

A poem by James Hoch. It begins:

Out the window, starlings
          fidget in the wasted eaves

of a bar burned down last summer.
They pilfer, figure,
                                      engineer

charred wire, booth cushion,
          anything light enough

to haul by beak, wedge high
          between blackened 2 X 4.

A nest,
          a bed for the dying
or just born

The rest here.