Perched—
black as bitterness,
balancing bold,
clinging,
hanging,
a vertical hold.
Resolute,
resonating
to thrumming dark lines,
pitching
and rolling
in these syncopated times.
Offbeat,
they fly.
Up now—
they soar
into the heights
of the musical score.
In rhapsody,
swooning,
swanning around,
air-headed in flight,
so far
from the ground.
Hear now the tweet.
Hear now the trill—
darting,
diving
from the dark windowsill.
Then once again,
upwards—
to heavenly heights.
Arias arising,
celestial sights.
Preternatural,
perchance—
such extraordinary flight,
lofty aspirations
now clear
out of sight.
Numinous are they,
these magical ones:
occultist oracles,
blackened
by sun.