The black-crowned night herons
who nested high
in the five-trunked ficus tree?

We warned our councilman:
"What? What are they called?"
It was election time.

Who will speak for the herons
who circle the stumps
that anchored their world

and wonder "Why so much air,
so much air and no leaves,
air and no branches?"

In soft grey tuxedos
from lamp posts they watch
for any movement
but the movement of machines.

Where are the mottled fledglings
with their lime green legs
begging beakfuls of fish?

Their world is flown,
rolled in a dumpster.
Fly, they fly in circles.