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On Ancient Wings...





                  The little black grackles keep coming back
                    for more.
                  They pick stale caramel corn from the sack,
                    swallow
                  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.


                    One flies
                  a warning, yellow-eyed at my face, as if
                    I would
                  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--


                    the wind
                  along lacy wing bars, early light that flirts
                    a wash
                  across the crown, sheen on bellies and bobs.
                    If these                            
                  blackbirds survive the cold another morning,
                    then so will I.
                  We have these things that hold us here,
                    this watch,
                  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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