There was no unseemly push.
They were either full
From successful harvest
Of the daily roadkill
Or resigned to meet
A night of hunger
Secure among the rest
In the roost’s unsanitary crush.

Sharp eyes doubtless saw me
Down below upon the street,
Neither fearful nor inviting,
Just another scavenger,
Also sated or still hungry,
Taking up a slot in my own flock,
Drifting to my own untidy roost
In my own cozy tree.