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.