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Boatail Grackle

The Mark and the Memory

I have seen the rusty blackbird 
All of the way up Southern Indian Lake.

Other than the slightly different voice, 
Its behavior not so different 
From other blackbirds 
That always seemed to form 
The backdrop to my life.
As with other small flock birds,
They emanate noise and activity, 
Appearing and disappearing in mass.
These movements probably mean something, 
But in my life I have managed to tie them to nothing.
Here and gone, 
Almost the way a beautiful woman
Might move in and out of my life.
Her comings, 
I had anything to do with.
Her going, 
A matter of her internal clock 
And little to do with me, 
Leaving only the mark and the memory,
A voice on the wind, 
A rustling wing-beat 
Felt and sensed 
As much as heard,

Where before it was only void, 
And will be void again for a time.

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