Poetry

In a big group dots appear out of the naught
where they turn round and round in the blue
with wings here and there flashing blade bright;
they decent dangerous, explicit,
like dirty washing rags fluttering and screeching
giving each other dirty looks, inciting the whole time,
they hang in the tops of green thorn trees,
with naked heads and necks stretched out,
with yellow-gold eyes spread open while they are spying,
before they flutter to the ground, not scared anymore
hobbling along, ripping a carcass apart,
screeching when hyenas want to offer resistance
they threaten with grotesque wings, claws clapping
milling angry around hyenas that tread around scared.