It's Still Life

A View Above From Below (Draft)

A blackbird lands on the ground. It looks,
not at the ground, but at the grass, and
hears a worm slipping through the roots.

Not roots, but slipping in the deep scent
of grubs and worms and maggots, in rotting
peace that swims and ripens into loam

from where I hear my own rot and ripe
playing sing-songs with roots and decay.
Not with roots, but with palettes of wind,

fallen flocks of flying leaves into which
a blackbird hears a worm slip through
soil. It stops, still as a stave, and looks.

Its beak agile as light, quicker than a worm.
A worm for the chorus of hungry chicks.

a eco-sonnet for PB “character study” © Misky 2020
Photo by Fabrizio Frigeni on Unsplash.