Prima Don
On the last evening of a wonderful weathered
summer, flitting between the branches
of our rowan tree and the Chinese wind chime
that some like me hear a sound almost divine
while others hear as an irritant in an English
garden, a young male blackbird with yellow
beak chirping - four, three, two, but rarely one
note and as the Prima Don in the opera of the
evening waves its head and wags its tail so
belligerently at rivals thereabout, whether
birds, cats or me, weathering our courage.
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