The School Of The Ancients

A bird spiraled down out of the sun,
Black as a Bicycle ace,
Glib as an undertaker.

She broke her fall on the turnips from the truck I had lately fallen out of,
And, oh, what a fabulous line of bullshit she had.

I made her pancakes,
The good kind, with spiced plums;
She ate them,
And ate me,
Indiscriminately.

In the shadow of the wing of the bird with the fabulous line of bullshit,
I gave birth to a child,
An unlikely child,
The scourge of the countryside, in those days.

That's the sort of stuff that I called joy,
When I was younger,
Before I knew any better--

But now my child is grown;
I know bullshit from bath water,
Shibboleth from Shinola;
I am ready for you, my fresh love, the way Athena was ready,
Setting her owl after the faker birds,
Smiling to herself,
Finally satisfied.
______ 
for Ella's challenge at Real Toads. My words were child, bird, shadow, and joy.