A factory of birds
or a foundling museum—
I’ve heard of both 
the past few days and they 
mix up with one 
another—where one begins 
and the other ends, I can’t
be bothered to know. Friday
I saw the sun setting 
into the lake; this morning 
driving north on my right 
past Bogue Chitto it looked less
magnificent, a lamp
someone forgot to put out.
I thought the birds were flying
back into the smokestacks,
but looking back now, I realize
it was the smokestacks
spitting them back out.