We had seen them strut under tables
and chairs with glass eyes,
click! clicking! like empty pistols
walking the streets for crumbs,
tough nuns.

But now under the high window of the Chinese
place at lunch with Bill and
Luis, we watched them preen in a green
tree, necks bent, beaks dipped to breasts,
wings darkly stretched and tails
fanned as they bit bit at the
lice that loved them underneath their dresses.

"Es como estan bailando," at last
muttered the Mexican.