All blackbirds in silhouette

It’s air-tight, this insulation
house silent except

the wicker crackle
of my chair-seat, periodic

ping of the furnace. Outside
before the sun, before even

the start of a down-street engine
swinging headlights, distant dog-bark

if I open the door (if)
a wealth of opening

joyflood birdsong, after-rain
dirt-scent, green

purelife welling a balm
worth its wait


Thank you, Jane, for the blackbird gold.