Blackbirds
      
 
       Blackbirds flank the winter road,
       well within the culvert,
       ladder to the trees,
       storm and scream 
       against the slighting snow,
 
       While bright birds sing
       the song of mouth to hand --
       my hand, your hand --
       suet and packaged seeds;
       they swarm the sculpted conifers
       and warm beneath a winter’s eve.
 
       On the belly of this ribboned snow
       here’s another scattering of crows,
       another house come into view 
       and in the drive 
       always always cars side by side 
       and across the yard, 
       those toys for children strewn.
 
       But soon enough, the tale 
       of bending roads, winding trees, 
       snow gathering in ditches,
       ditches gathering in streams
       resumes along a country road, 
       however long, 
       however brief, 
       a home to those
       who never arrive
       and always leave. 



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