It's Still Life

Above and Below (Rewritten)

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

But not just roots but musk scents of grubs
and worms and maggots, a peaceful rot
ripe as perfume. But not just perfume. It’s

a tune strumming through thatched roots,
and a palette of wind toying with flocks
of leaves flying down on that blackbird

who hears a worm slip through. It stops,
still as a stave. Looks. Its beak agile as light.
A worm for its chorusing hungry chicks.

Originally written for PB “character study”
revised beyond all recognition   © Misky 2020