Blackbird

Blackbird sings shrill at night, before day's dawn, not now drowned by traffic's rumble sound, nor returning early morning flight from Costa's Benidorm to Heathrow's duller, grayer ground. Now all is empty beach, and quieter lock-down street. This strange unearthly morning still has only just begun, has only just begun its start, is nowhere near complete. And blackbird sits on hedge row top, or higher branch, dark shadowed shape to rising glow. And does he notice those below no longer make their way to work, or turn the key where car is parked beside suburban curb? Has he found this finer voice now humankind has lost its choice to mask this far sublimer task of glory choral sound? So sweetly sung, so sweetly hung between each silent pause. It gains Creator's ear, soft ringing His applause, while many sit in fear, shut still behind closed doors, first hearing clear for many years this greater sound composed. First hearing clear for many years: Creator's sound composed.