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.
I had anything to do with.
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.