I certainly understand

the exaltation of larks,

but what about the pitched

past pitched panegyric

of magpies? Oh such

a scurrilous chorus

of well served scorn

aimed at the world

around them.

 

And I can tell you

it’s not a dark drop

of devil’s blood under their tongue,

but a blue map

to the magpie bridge

where a new earth spins

like a damsel

beneath the milky way.

descending blue.

 

I shot a magpie once;

seven times with my

I’m just a boy BB gun,

and before he died he shared

seven secrets never to be told

especially now that I’m old.

One for sorrow.

Two for joy.