← Poetry

The New Salem Blackbird

His sleek, black head whips around to catch a hope of west wind. Nothing moving on this late summer afternoon. Leaves hang like old washing on the lines of sugar maples.

Ah! There they are! The first fat black metallic things invading the old Blackbird’s lair. “Used to be,” he thinks, “this place was mine.” He blinks as the first pale flightless birds strut ‘round his little road. “Used to be I could sleep,” thinks the old Blackbird. “Used to be, I could think when the sun went down.” “Worms. Water. Nesting. Lots of thoughts. “Now… now I’m… I’m disturbed. I’m mightily disturbed.” And the old Blackbird dances behind the cover of a maple leaf.

“My father..he’d tell us tales of the others..the old ones who came here.. Back before the concrete and metal.. their board perches a feast for woodpeckers… “He’d talk of how their rows of artificial suns would set the evening sky ablaze. “He’d remind me of how I’d chirp my youthful cries until the flightless ones had gone to roost and taken with them their torches on the trees.”

The old Blackbird stops his thinking.. a noise.. the flightless birds open their box-houses . . “Tried making my nest there once,” he muses. “Woke to find myself trapped. “Too much noise in that tree to raise a family.”

The old Blackbird looks up the concrete pathway.. Another, then another flightless bird, their feathers flung carelessly over their backs. The old buzzard with a brown comb on his chin…that thundering chirp roaring through the hollow. “The one who keeps me awake nights,” grumbles the Blackbird. Three ladybirds chatter under his roost.. …a flightless redbird, a tall flamingo with streaked feathers, and the little bird who prances. The others arrive.. the eagle, the thrush, and the swallow. “At least they’re songbirds,” he muses. “Could be worse. “Some nights it’s a flock of sparrows and starlings..chatter, chatter, chatter with no song at all.”

They nest awhile behind the big birdhouse, nibbling on bits of stolen plunder. Their cawing is a curious babble, mixed with sweat and strange smells. He turns his curious old ebony head askance as the noisy birds emerge from their house in feathers of a different color. “This is one for the books,” he thinks. “Chameleon birds. Most rare indeed.” They strut a different gate now, some five-toed, others but a single claw upon the ground. “The buzzard’s been mucking about in the puddles,” says the old Blackbird. “And he doesn’t even clean himself. Piffle. Dwat and Piffle!”

An older eagle takes his perch and the old Blackbird glides to the sapling for a better view. “Good evening!” (Popcorn. I hope they drop their popcorn tonight.) “We hang out here…” (they’ve brought their young fledglings tonight.. Good! They’re always spilling this and that.) “My card is chartreuse. I don’t know what color yours is…” (The popcorn is yellow.. All I know or care to know.) “Now please stand and join us….” The Blackbird could do the eagle’s song by now. And suddenly the old Bird is startled by a chorus of an invisible flock, their high notes causing Blackbird to flap his wings up ‘round his ears.

“I’ve enough of this… all song and no popcorn.” And as the old Blackbird toddles back to a sturdier branch He grabs hold for his life as the young eagle and the thrush Dash from their dens, screaming the name of the swallow. Then the screaming buzzard, the redbird & the flamingo, and the little bird who prances. “I’m told old for this,” sighs the old Blackbird. “Too old for missing my sleep. “Grandfather told of the days when a horse’s clompy hoof marked the night’s watch. He said it was a comfort. “But this… this nightly chirping and chawing and gnashing of beaks. “I’m told old for this. Too, too old. One tim-drowsey beasty.”

The sun-trees rob his eyes of their slumber. The chattering birds below him snatch away his peace. Even the promise of dropped corn holds little joy tonight. “Why should I roost elsewhere?” he wonders. “Was I not the first to perch here? Have I not the right? “Is not this hollow mine?”

No one sees the old Blackbird as they waddle their way Up the hard path toward the dark horizon. No one sees him gazing with wide, wistful eyes and the little valley below. No one feels the relief in his tiny breast as the last of the flightless birds go off to roost. “Mine. My valley. My river. My home,” he mumbles in his half-sleep. “My small bit of creation. Not much, but enough..and mine.”

The cicadas lull him into a soft, weary sleep. The sound of crickets speed his dreams down paths filled with fat worms, slow-moving beetles and dropped popcorn.. oh, but for a bit of that right now. The flightless birds and the flock that always gathers ‘round them are forgotten like last night’s puddle bath. An almost-round Illinois moon catches but the blue-black glint of his chest feathers. “My own tree torch,” he murmurs. “Let them outshine that. Humph! Dwat and Piffle!”

The old Blackbird flicks a gnat in his sleep. His aging body jerks. He thinks of the flightless birds and their mindless trespassing, and he heaves a white glob of goo to the grass below. “Good enough for them,” he smiles. “Mine. My valley. My river. My home. My hollow.” The day’s first coolness caresses his tail feathers. Pleased, we wakes to tell himself, “I’ll be here. “I’ll be here long after they’ve gone. “Nomads, those flightless things. Those who have the gift of flight stay home. “Those without, aspire to soar. Humph. Dwat and Piffle!”

The old bird feels the first warm breeze of morning. He rises to stretch his feathers and let the warming wind dissolve the night’s dew. “Mine. My valley. My river. My home. My hollow. “Humph!”