These darlings of unison have never heard of Euclid. Over a county road on this early spring day they blow like a storm of black dust, their flock's changeling forms swelling and shrinking, quivering and sometimes exploding like a puff-ball. They're back from their warmer climes and no doubt hungry and tired and hell-bent on mating, little wings filled with the promise of a new spring which, to blackbirds, must always seem the first.
What lakes, what rivers, what meadows they've seen! and with what indefatigable energy they master each wind:
I lean on the steering wheel and gaze up at them as they pass over the road only to vanish as quickly as they appeared,
feeling suddenly happy for the best of reasons,
which is none I can name.
the swollen river
detained a moment
by its isle