Watching Blackbirds
Watching Blackbirds
Again, I find myself watching the blackbirds
They come as a cloud that sits upon the ground
Each respecting his wingman’s space
As they pass overhead, they sound like a sudden spring shower
That comes, then goes, finding a place in the field
They move like water running across the way
Pulled by gravity to a lower venue
As they glean the area of worms, bugs and seeds
The rear faction takes to the air
Gliding to the lead for better feeding
This becomes a ritual that is repeated several times
Until the plate is empty, or the craw is filled
They rise in waves that join to make a twisted rope
Smoke from a generous campfire
Rolling, Roiling, tumbling and loping
They politely pass, waving goodbye
With each movement of their wings
And softly I can hear them sing
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