135. Blackbirds at Noon

Blackbirds at noon,
feeding on the lawn
and in the fields.

Stragglers rest
upon the prickly, bare
branches, swaying
in the biting breeze:

As one by one,
they join the others,
there is always the
one
resting
solitary
in the
trees

Explain to me,
how even among these
mundane
creatures
there are
poets, staring at the
mid-day
sun,
pondering the
infiniteness of
the world

Else,
it is my
ridiculous
anthropomorphic
personification,
projected upon
unassuming
subjects

He is simply tired
from a day’s
flight;
full from the
last meal;
He joins them,
all the same,
in due time.

And I am left here,
watching,
until by some fluke,
they all steal away,
black ribbons on a
stony sky

and I remain,
wondering if it is
foolish to be
too
pensive