Strict blackbird with a single thread-fine word
dry in a bunch of warm leaves
waits behind the rain wall.
He takes a wicked note like an arrow
from the quiver of his throat;
I hear it arch, then fall.
I try to flush him from his hide
to see him ugly, clumsy, flap to the roof
but I feel a silken rasp
as my fingers grasp in my side an aloof thin colour.
Blackbird, in a rustle of coarse armour,
makes to himself a pale arrow.
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