Watching Blackbirds

Watching Blackbirds Again, I find myself watching the blackbirds They come as a cloud that sits upon the ground Each respecting his wingman’s space As they pass overhead, they sound like a sudden spring shower That comes, then goes, finding a place in the field They move like water running across the way Pulled by gravity to a lower venue As they glean the area of worms, bugs and seeds The rear faction takes to the air Gliding to the lead for better feeding This becomes a ritual that is repeated several times Until the plate is empty, or the craw is filled They rise in waves that join to make a twisted rope Smoke from a generous campfire Rolling, Roiling, tumbling and loping They politely pass, waving goodbye With each movement of their wings And softly I can hear them sing