Thor, the Norse God of Thunder, had a hammer named Mjölnir. Mjölnir was considered a fierce weapon that could level mountains and summon lightning with every blow. In this poetry blog, every Thursday, (Thor’s Day), Mjölnir will forge only song - sing of the mysteries and beauties of the world.

Thursday, November 6, 2014

BIRD STRIKE

A billionth of a chance.
But it happens.
That feather and bone
can down a plane,
during lift off or landing,
so close to home.

A travesty really.
Something emulated
destroys its imitation,
and by accident.

All it takes is one small body
to gum up the works:
for jet fan to turn on itself.
Blades breaking blades,
engine igniting, exploding.
A cascading effect—
that leads to carnage,
and to that thing of beauty–bird,
grace-in-flight—becoming
unrecognizable, and the music
of its names annihilated;
Greylag Goose, Gyps Vulture
Milvus Kite, Horned Lark,
Mourning Dove.

It is something else entirely.

What remains is the remains,
that the Smithsonian and its forensics
pick through and call snarge.

Seems a lot like shame.

All it takes is one small failure
to send the whole rig of self—bird,
plane, passengers—toward pulverization, catastrophe and a zoonosis of a different feather.






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