xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxthe redwing blackbird’s clack—Ruth Stone
The starlings were talking yesterday
about you and me. About time. Flocks starting to mass,
end of summer, racing to change roosts before night.
Birds shot across the road weaving and coursing low over the ground
each one telling the flat truth over and over. Another strand followed
dark in the dusk, tracking scent in air. Then stragglers
calling out, blind. Heavy rains. I looked for you in the full waters
brimming, trembling, found peace in my torso, unbound.
Flocks lost at night scream and chatter in the morning,
a pennywhistle orchestra raucous, mocking.