Vagrant blackbirds mangle the air with curses,
Damn us. Travelers vulgar as rusty hinges
Screech their hard-wrenched grammar, and jagged verses
Tear through to wake me.
"Hinges?" My last dream finds the word while failing,
Supplies image fitted to sound: a doorway
Creaking open, nothing beyond but wailing,
Talons like axes.
Blackbirds hinging north when the weather follows
Bring an iron air back to the cooling houses--
Winter storms whet hatchets in southern hollows.
"Nature will eat you,"
Raucous birds mock down, "and to hell with pity!"
But I rush out, shaking my fist, and after
Mayhem my mood hinges--a shudder now, and
Hours later, laughter.
