bowing to the gods
of a lavender stalk
That scruffy blackbird is back. I watch him pluck worms from the wet grass, his jaunty pecks disturbing the disarray of dead leaves. With ruffed-up tail feathers, he finds one worm, then another, and hops to the concrete path in front of the dog-pawed ranch slider. He drops both worms in favour of the cockroach my fiancé stomped on and tossed out last night at my haughty insistence. The worms wriggle apart, and scoot in opposite directions. Which route is safer – heading back to the grass, or towards the house?
The blackbird turns away from me to crunch on the roach - dropping it, prodding it, clasping it once again in his beak. Does he sense my disgust? Or maybe he is too shy to receive my gratitude at having the signs of death cleared away.
all the street lights
the sound of wind-chimes
He turns back to pick up the worms, then flies off with his breakfast bounty into the morning sky. I turn and walk to the kitchen to see what the fridge has to offer.
Copyright © Kirsten Cliff
First published in Kokako 12 (April, 2010)
A different version of the first haiku appeared in Valley Micropress (Vol.12, Is.08, Oct 2009)
|Photo by Cameron Elliot|