I watch the blackbird among the slippery leaves.
He watches me with an eye that sees
The minutiae of existence.
Beneath the rotting leaves in the cold, shallow mud
Blackbird bobs and scratches
Living one insect at a time
And ruffles his feathers against the wind.
No summer memories to keep him warm
No thoughts of spring ahead
Just life’s command rattling in his bones
Live scratch eat
And in the spring, if there is a spring
Your lean throat will fill
With the pared down purity of a song.