The Blackbird

My little friend he sits and sings

cocooned within his shapely wings.

As black as night, as brash as day

he lifts his head and sings away,

and looks askance when I appear

and with my camera interfere.

He seems so puny here below

from where I watch the fishes go.

And sings the harder round about,

as patient by the water spout

I watch the silver liquid flow

then awkward round the garden go.

A little here, a little there,

while he calls out his evening prayer;

and warns the fellows round about

that he'll defend this garden stout.

The snails, the worms, oh so slow

are for his wife he'll have them know.

Then from the ridge he takes to flight

and on a wired pole alights

and sings a while before he goes

to where the twisted willow grows.

The boundaries he is making clear:

There is no Bed & Breakfast here!

Then back upon the rooftop he,

looks yet again askance at me.

For I am feeling humble now,

and watching, while he takes a bow.

And waiting, for the sunset low

on his extended chest, to show.

_________

© Cormac McCloskey