Blackbird

That blackbird has been nagging at my Muse
impinging on my consciousness as, from every direction
early and late
his presence and intention amplifies,
although I am sure he is only serenading his Mrs
parked there, on the tip-top of a cherry tree
with its outrageous frou frous of pinkest blossoms;
his pure notes married to the May blueness
personifying when the sap runs amok
- his month.
As if the song itself brings on the unfurling foliage
testosterone brim, the surge to re-create.

Ah, there he is again!
His little chest bursting with the need to proclaim his case
not just on behalf of his kind
but for the season itself, seething with desire for new life.
There he is, in the hawthorn, on a fence post, on the upturned-flower-pot
on-stage, up-front, highly visible
heard before seen, at dawn and dusk
mouthpiece of Spring itself - not just a prima donna strutting its stuff.

He scutters across the grass, having spied the worm
then deftly, with his dagger beak, wrestles it out.
Somehow, he is a no-nonsense family man
but, imprinting every molecule,
slaying the listener in heart-stopping delight
with his gift from the gods...
alleluia!