Are you able to catch that blackbird’s song?
You know fine well my higher hearing’s gone —
controlled explosions and pneumatic drills.
So I try to tune him first to soaring trills
then see-saw notes of warning as the cat
invisibles his predatory self in under-
growth; how the molasses of his song
meanders nightfall when the threat moves on.
Hey look! A golden eagle way up there!
No chance hawk-eye! Marking jotters till dawn.
You know I’m blinder than a cricket ball.
And with his own precision he gives me sun
on the edge of a wind-span throttled back sweet
to find ungainly land in the lee of morning
while I slit my eyes to hear the young call.
by Anne Connolly