the black bird has no song for me
his voice a hybrid of
dismissive laughter and
cynical certainty
still
he digs in the wet earth
for fat worms
and doesn’t complain
about the mud
on his beak
floating and leaving no trace
the black bird has no song for me
his voice a hybrid of
dismissive laughter and
cynical certainty
still
he digs in the wet earth
for fat worms
and doesn’t complain
about the mud
on his beak