the fucking creatures of this world
never cease by their arts to amaze me
regard the bower birds on the ground
in the long hours of their mating season
the males construct earthen structures
with complexities of inverse proportion
inverse to the unquestionable beauty
beaming out the chest of their plumage
the females amble into and through
the wards of their could-be desires
and if the high walls with surrounding treasures
and hues conquer enough they act subdued
and to the nearest branch they go and call
and hoist a tail feather then wait and are taken
but then it happens sometimes a female will
after the act recognize another bower she likes better
and she will course then through its heart
inciting a thrill in the body of its maker
the new male will meet her on her regular branch
and he will greet her from behind with his beak
where he picks the semen of the errant lover out
from within the body of this mistaken female
and then he plants a seed for his own future
and secures it by destroying the nearest bowers
amazing these birds are artists engaged in intrigue
that parallels closely human life and courting ritual
and is it a great divide between their promiscuity
and ours that waters my eyes and leaves a bad taste in my mouth
knowing bower birds do not need machine guns
to kill each other and neither do we?
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