blackbird fall migration

swarming black masses

rushing wing flutter

with creaky squeaky pinchy voices

rising and falling, turning and swelling

pulsing schools of sky fish now

alight jostling on tree tops, jazzed

and then woosh…rising again

a drifting clutter northward, and east,

then circing west, scattering, falling on cue

like a fist of raisins thrown in the sky

pulsing close in harmonious chaos,

and this rabble, this impossible mob;

no guide to direct them,

no king to order commands,

no political divisions,

no instruction or supervision,

as one mind in undulating freedom

mysteriously they arrive in the south,

in the warmer greener places

as their ancestors always have.




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