Evening Song
Do you see the grackle,
a silhouette
on the birch,
his song harsh
like a rusted hinge,
his eye,
yellow as the sun?
He inflates
his chest and sings.
Listen…
hear him scrape open
the gates of evening.
His metallic squawk
sings
down
the sun,
invites the darkness in.
Wait,
do you see the grackle,
his iridescent silhouette?
Listen…
hear him screech...
calling down the darkness,
summoning
the moon.
The photo is mine.
The photo is mine.
