Fever

[ampoule]

Fever

What in the world is wrong with them,
Playing chicken with cars going sixty,
Darting all around, fast frenzy,
Flirting with females and death?

I brake, of course, while they stall,
Springing out in formation, like jets,
Coming round, another fly-by,
Then off to cornfield safety,
Not a feather touched.

They never saw what could have hit them,
Their eyes on the prize, chasing tail,
Oh for a fixed-eye look, a chirp,
Some kind of encouragement, but she,
She flicks that tail and swooping down,
Shops the ground for nesting materials.

ampoule, April TwentyThird, TwoThousandNine

[Sapphire]

I am still not sure whether this is about animals crossing the road, or teenagers playing in the fields. :) I like how you keep that a secret (or I just miss the clue :lol:). I also think the title is very appropriate.

Thank you for sharing, Sapphire.

[PrinceMyshkin]

I love the way this shifts in point of view from the horrified onlooker, to that of the feverish driver-hunters and finally, tellingly, to that of one of their intended preys, with her so domestic indifference to those who are focussed on her.

[firefangled]

I used to love the cornfield end of town. You captured it well, sexy pheasants, and those petite quail tails in the air.

[Lokasenna]

I'm baffled, but in a good way; it seems to be a poem that has several stories running at once. I particularly liked the imagery and alliteration in "fast frenzy,/ Flirting with females and death?"