The blackbirds flock in a cluster of murderous merles
The month I am grieving.
They don’t chirp or caw or quaintly whistle.
They cry.
In a human sort of anguish that tears
Through the branches—
Wailing, weeping, streaking down
The sky.
They are gathering now, tightly, jagged
Breath rustling in and out
Like a broken lung.
They are perching, stalwart on the bones
Of the oak and elm, the
Cedar of Lebanon
That is surely dying,
So far from home.
Where have they come from? They must
Be harbingers. Forerunners.
What are they
Uttering? Oh, who can tell?
We human beings cry, too, without words.