The little black grackles keep coming back
They pick stale caramel corn from the sack,
them whole, toe-dancing snowdrifts, all bobs
in the delight
of the find. Even city doves wait their turn
in the blizzard
of birds, in the yes yes yes of it.
a warning, yellow-eyed at my face, as if
rush her feathers for a spicy hat, her belly
for a bit
of meat to glaze, breast a bone from which
to pull a wish.
From where I stand behind the window glass,
it is only this
upon which I fix my eyes and my desire--
along lacy wing bars, early light that flirts
across the crown, sheen on bellies and bobs.
blackbirds survive the cold another morning,
then so will I.
We have these things that hold us here,
sweet feast, the voiceless scavenging--
the yes oh yes of it.
(c) Andrena Zawinski
(On Ancient Wings appeared in Comstock Review.)
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