A blackbird watches from his perch
Up in the hawthorn tree,
And as I dig and turn the earth
He waits expectantly.
The sunlight filters through the leaves
And gleams upon his wing,
Yet he remains oblivious
Of the sights and sounds of Spring.
He only sits in silence
As with my spade I toil,
In ardent contemplation
Of a feast upon new soil.
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Comments about this poem (The Blackbird. by Daffodil Jackson )
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