like dark splotches
on the green lawn
the flock pecks and
runs and pecks the ground
darting here and
there, running and bobbing,
a few take flight
but others remain
they run at each
other, then run away,
always returning to
searching the ground
for bits of seeds
and worms and wet grass
the ringleader takes
to the air
but others take his
place to peck some more
as the sun rises and
the fog recedes
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