Common Grackles rested
on the naked Maple canopy.
Like aneurysms waiting
to burst into flight
they bent the thinning branches.
They had every rite of spring.
Some of them loitered
through the winter
and saw their reflections on ice.
What freedom to stay.
Christ stayed on the tree
and burst unto death
and burst into flight.
When came the light upon the eastern ridge,
the trees crowned with fire hold black winged fight.
A day awake and yawning and a murder
skips across the gaps in the canopy.
Yet again they talk boisterously
and aid interruption of created
things besides myself.
I simple black line of poetic insistence.