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On Ancient Wings
by Andrena Zawinski
The little black grackles keep coming back
for more.
They pick stale caramel corn from the sack,
swallow
them whole, toe-dancing snowdrifts, all bobs
in the delight
of the find. Even city doves wait their turn
in the blizzard
of birds, in the yes yes yes of it.
One flies
a warning, yellow-eyed at my face, as if
I would
rush her feathers for a spicy hat, her belly
for a bit
of meat to glaze, breast a bone from which
to pull a wish.
From where I stand behind the window glass,
it is only this
upon which I fix my eyes and my desire--
the wind
along lacy wing bars, early light that flirts
a wash
across the crown, sheen on bellies and bobs.
If these
blackbirds survive the cold another morning,
then so will I.
We have these things that hold us here,
this watch,
sweet feast, the voiceless scavenging--
the yes oh yes of it.
Previously published in: Against Certainty Poets for
Peace Anthology, Chapiteau Press
2003
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