The Song of the Great-Tailed Grackle

The Song of the Great-Tailed Grackle

A viva voce poem

These if you notice are migrants all,

no one sticks around–in transit like geese flying forth

In the shadow of morning, they seek out a rest.


Wingless they fly, flock with no gaggle,

On pinions furled and dry, most absurd in the air,

A rollicking ramble of rash-throat rips ear to ear.


Like in the air a flurry of northward wings wind,

So in the aether the cackle migrates to song,

Where heavenly harmonies somehow belong:


Land, lake, cloud, and man under the arch-aegis

Of sybillant swings and oracular orbits

Pause in their pleasure–all peckish, they feed.


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