Ready as want to tout relief,
Between a sigh and anxious yield,
A blackbird calmly high-stepping
On the trash-gold of a cane-field.
Where my backyard may counter-talk
Morning sings of the field’s adore,
And the field may speak anywhere,
Anything—who is now trash poor?
The field grants just enough stalking
Room to consign the soul to grace,
The earth cosying up to love
To help remove time’s hard displace.
Blackbird one, blackbirds two, 3, 4,
Decrying loud, dark aesthetic
From lawn and wall and token gate
Faith the field, flight from rhetoric.