Great-Tailed Grackle

May 5 2020

Like a sacred choir, in long black robes

a congregation of birds

roosts on the wires

in the twilight glow.

Who have spent the day

squabbling, foraging, tending their nests.

And who now, still vigilant, rest,

extended families

reconnecting

reinforcing their bonds.

Their blue-black heads

have a shimmering iridescence

in the setting sun.

And their tails are magnificent, fully spread,

black velvety feathers

so deep and dark

they seem to absorb light.

Big birds,
sitting so closely packed

the power lines sag
and strain against their poles;

so low
they seem about to snap

but don't.

They're also loud and aggressive,

so people passing underneath
in the fast food parking lot
cover their heads
and double their pace,

hunching 
over french fries and onion rings

and eyeing them nervously,

imagining sharp talons

and chiselled beaks

and Hitchcock horror films.

When, as if on command

they all take flight,

a cacophony of flapping wings

and loud guttural calls.

Big birds, in a swirling black cloud

sling-shotting off

in all directions.

We have dominion over the beasts

claim mastery of all we survey.

Except here

in the fast food parking lot

where the grackles patiently wait.

A pestilence of birds

watching over us.

As we cower and hustle

and run for cover

and wonder what on earth.

This podcast is what inspired this poem. Fast forward to a little after the 12 minute mark to listen in.

https://gimletmedia.com/shows/every-little-thing/j4hllxm/inside-the-jigsaw-puzzle-factory

For some reason, I not only felt like writing, I felt like writing about birds. I thought about trying to capture that whooshing sound when they fly overhead, a sound that's caused by the speed of their wing-tips cracking the air. And I found myself picturing big black birds. As soon as I started to get down the first line, I realized that my imagery had probably come from a podcast I listened to the day before.

We don't have grackles here, but we do have crows, and they are just as sociable and can sometimes feel just as menacing.

Regular readers will recognize the familiar trope with which it ends: man's place in nature; man's hubris and arrogance. I know this must by now seem not only repetitious, but also a bit sanctimonious. On the other hand, can this really be said too much? And anyway, the ending rescues the poem, elevating it from a stylistic exercise in lyric poetry to something more meaningful.