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.