The blackbird among the leaves

Jane Dougherty Writes


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

Life squirms.

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.

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