The blackbirds have come back
Displaying their noble chevrons
Just a few to start with
Pecking at the wet grass
Like archaeologists
Or kids with heads bent over their phones
Walking ceaselessly onward
One hustles to peck over there
While a few more descend
Singly at first but then in ever-larger groups
Now there are a couple dozen
When a big subcommittee flies in followed by another
And eventually there must be close to a hundred
A handful fly up a few feet
But this is not the silent signal for a mass departure
They want only to relocate somewhat
Out of inscrutable motives
And their teammates persist in their patient toil
While a robin or two patrol the periphery

Yes I live in the suburbs
A lifelong beneficiary of privilege
Yet despite this fact
And partly out of guilt for it
I sometimes lapse into
Shall we say low moods
And yet for all the oppressive languor
I feel compelled to speak or rather to write
To give utterance
To this dull flaccid stupor
Ah but to disguise it
So that the world will know me to be
First cheerful and charming
Wise and witty
Light and lissome and full of levity
And secondly
A brilliant craftsman
A technician of extraordinary skill
Gay deceiver
Selfish con
And so not surprisingly
No words come to carry out
This inconsistent agenda
When surprised by joy as it were
I spy the first few foraging blackbirds

I see that on some of them
The distinctive insignia is scarcely visible
And none of them exhibit the deep crimson
I remember from my childhood
Single specimens near the river
Not this impressive multitude
Gathering at the cul de sac
Are they maybe a different species
But pale marks on the purplish black
Comely nonetheless
And one forager a bit bigger perhaps
Sports the shoulder emblem
Of distinct preeminence
A golden angle pointing upward
Swept like the wings of a jet
Fitted to a brown-red slash
The silent signal comes
Of which only the flock is aware
Order in chaos it once was said
Together in an instant they depart