The grackles have returned
because Detroit is not San Juan Capistrano
and they are not swallows.
Like Spanish grandmothers wearing mantillas
they walk with dignity born of pain
at spring weddings and morning funerals.
The grackles have returned
like circuit riders to small villages
carrying bibles and handguns down lonely lanes.
I find the finest one and lure him into a dance.
We are corn kernels, matching cutlery,
a marriage of local beauty and somber bird.
The grackles are back and have not killed anyone
so far, in the scramble beneath the feeder.
They only did that for one summer, years ago
when I held a dead fledgling in my palm
and the sun shone brightly like a smiling dandy.
I love a poem full of birds and enjoyed this immensely, with its poignant imagery. Life can be a heartbreaker, it appears.
ReplyDeleteA chilling danse macabre with that black feathered force that both hops and flies, but never quite sings. Your work with the metaphor here is stunning, Shay.
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