Outside my kitchen window a grackle sings.
His song is not a pretty one -
And 'grackle' an unfortunate name
for a love bird.

As he sings he grips the barren branch,
Steadying his earnest song against the wind.
The sun transforms his oily feathers
black, then midnight blue and black again,
pale yellow eye gleaming.

If I hold out my arms, oh Grackle,
Will you sing to me, fly to me, make me
your tree? I will pull you to my breast until
your song is done, and kiss your wings
with the warmth of the spring.

Outside my kitchen window the grackle sings.
His song is not a pretty one -
And 'grackle' an unfortunate name
for a love bird.