Written by
Patricia Lang
January 2020

As if listening to the fingering of a silent fiddle

Black Birds descend as one [mind] into the grass, ready – a shindig.

Coming or going, the atmosphere fraught with almost rain, hinting,

Of a party, “you can smell it!” a veritable jingle.

The long green grass, bending, blades, darken, therefore too wet for kindling;

But ideal for insect shindigs – minute earth entities risen:

A picnic for those Black Birds (Starlings, Red-Wings, Grackyls) whose single thinking

Instinctively drove them to this patch of grass, feeding frenzy shindig.


(When the wind; the birds flew up, sails stirring, linen on the line, wafting…)

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