With Strange Feathers

 Saturday nights light up
   with strange feathers;
      never meant to fly,
        as peacocks preen -
              

or prowl, owls hoot,
  blinking occasionally
    - unused to neon
      lighting strange barns.

 
Some flock, knock around
   in a mating game
     played out by earthbound
       fledgling night-hawks.

 
I crow, go solitary
  among the screeching parakeets,
     ignoring love-birdsong
        and dangerous liaisons.