I reach for the blackbird,

the crow, the raven.

The more I grip, like sand,

it flows through my

fingers–on its way

back to whence it came.

Flighty at most,

perched occasionally–

to take a shot

at it–

is a chancy proposition,

either way.

Even a dead center hit

would not destroy

its perseverance–it

comes back as soon as

it’s gone–maybe a

bluebird this time–

disguised with a deck

full of blackbird cards

ready to pounce

on the unsuspecting

chick–one foot in the nest

and one wing out–

Categories: creative, creative writing, Poetry, surprise, Uncategorized | Tags: , , | Leave a comment

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