qarrtsiluni

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

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