No exaggeration. I am at my desk. Working on a poem.
A dizzying formation of dark dots speed by.
100 blackbirds flew into the trees and onto branches outside my window.
They landed in groups. Choreographed, as if directed to swoop in at the signal.
I grabbed my phone to take a photo. I could not believe what I saw.
No one would believe this sight.
I opened the camera.
I had them.
Did they hear me? Did they know I wanted to seize the moment?
100 birds lifted off in unity
and they were gone.
Was it a mirage?
Poems hold the words at my command.
Real life is out of my control.
And because art imitates life,
I hit send, allowing these words to take flight
from my fingers to the screen
when my cable connection hit a wall
and I thought my words were lost in air,
seeking a place to land.
I thought they were gone,
feeling relieved when the connection was restored,
the black words still here, shocking me by their presence.
It is all so unexpected,
like birds in a warm winter, here because why bother head for the south,
flitting from tree to tree, with no idea
what the hell is going on.