by Jim Farfaglia
Four and twenty blackbirds
baking in this August heat
fly into my backyard
and rest in the cool evening shade.
They peck at my mowed lawn for hors d’oeuvres,
take turns at the feeder for today’s entrée,
then use my larger-than-life fingerbowl
to wash the weariness from their day.
There’s not a feather of color on any of them.
Their call carries not a note of beauty.
But I love how they flutter when I say hello,
how they scatter and disappear
and how they always come back.