Cancer

Unendowed with wealth or pity,
Little birds with scarlet legs,
Sitting on their speckled eggs,
Eye each flu-infected city.
W.H. Auden

The river bed is dry, the channel seasonal,
Along the banks the buzzing of flies.
The dryness of the season bodes no portent,
Nor the hum of machinery within lofty spires.
Torrential rains have come, tornados spun
Destruction in the seeded, fertile lands.
The high priestess who administers
Will allow the strictly appointed to pass.
Rivers overflow, sweeping markers;
Boundaries lost in the breaking of levies,
While winds roar down the skulls of hatchlings.
The remainder flee the scene, lacking documentation:
Their passports show tiny, uncomprehending faces.