by Allison Miller
Look at the blueblack birds cleaning
their slick shining, their tight
balance on the wire. How
they grip the line and everything
it contains so briefly-what is being said
inside, what is not being said.
Do the lines hum with the trembling
of these plans, what they excuse?
Will there be no mark to this passing?
Look at the blackbirds, how neatly
they resign to their blue cleaning.
How they push against the wire when finished,
the line barely moving as they take flight.
The words, so quick to reach their gentle
heeding, are gone before the release.
Is it the vibration’s pause that unhinges
to flight? Or is it the pleading voice
that rattles the line?
The “come here–I want to see you”
of that first call, of every call
moving out beneath their black feet.
*Photo courtesy Andrea.