All your birdseed is going to the blackbirds, he said,
They’re birds too, I replied.
The crowd of grackles
perched upon the wrought iron
weaved and hopped.
Fluffing up their feathers,
like black balloons,
until they deflate with
a metallic screech.
Their stony yellow eyes,
watch for traffic
they fly as anything draws near.
Can’t he see the glimmer of day
upon their feathered frames?
It shines blue and green,
a metallic sheen,
it glows with life and peacock teal,
Or are they only blackbirds still?
All my birdseed is going to the blackbirds.
And the blue blackbirds.
And the green blackbirds.
And all the colors that blackbirds can be, with them I share my seeds.
And their cries, their screeching cries,
are like the songs of gemstones to my ears.
Thanks for stopping by, feel free to let me know what you think of this one. I’d love to hear from you!
Robert JV Christensen