Artifice

The plastic Great Horned Owl, stuck with glue

on the stamped tin, corbelled cornice lip

impresses no one — not the starlings that dip

and stitch, nor pigeons as they fluff and coo

around its feet. And vinyl siding’s too

regular — each molded, faux-grained strip

identical, but for dents, and that drip

of   bird shit from a sill. What if all you

might say speaks like crafted, ersatz things:

mimicry in a tongue you barely know?

Your owl signs death, the cornice stone, the fake

clapboard conjures farmhouse. While just below

the ledge, a wren’s mindless gestures make

an altar of twigs, in veneration of wings.