Wetlands

It was a dry day.

The sky painter had been out with charcoal in force
softening the edges, rounding the sides, hiding the Sun
still on the rise.

The swans came waddling
up from the bank, caught between gates,
imprisoned and flanked,
in the name of protection, preservation is key,
keep all the birds in one place to be free.

Humans can't be trusted, beyond causing great harm,
with an agenda, a stomach and a gun on the arm,
birds weren't meant for living, no wildlife at play,
the game, set and match as long as human's okay
out on the wetlands lays the last of her kind,
only after all gone, human changes his mind.