Barbara Crooker
A Congregation of Grackles
It is the season of no return, winter not done
with us, spring yet to arrive. Scruffy lawns
turn a little greener; daylight preens, spreads
its feathers. Grackles fan their wings,
clatter and clack in the maple trees,
making a racket that passes for song.
Startled, they pour out of the woods,
a long black scarf unwinding
Their raucous talk, a thousand fingernails
scratching on glass or a chalkboard
shreds the air. Black cross stitches,
embroidering the blue bunting sky,
they are the X, the unknown quantity
in every equation. They mark the spot
where we cross the equinox,
the resurrection of the woods,
moving from darkness
into the light.
Copyright (C) Barbara Crooker, 2006. All rights reserved.
Previously appeared in print in The Potomac Review