Hearing the glorious sounds of blackbirds this morning reminded me of a poem I wrote almost a year ago on a similarly lovely morning:

The Blackbird Doesn't Know His Song

The blackbird doesn't know his song
is filled with music, just that he
is bursting with it, may explode -
unless he vents his urgency.

The brown bird though, may know her mate
is singing for a chance to breed;
to generate, not celebrate:
a symphony that sings of need.

Soon, cocooned, their young lie still,
but yet they hear their lullaby,
and learn of all the songs they'll spill
upon us - idle passers-by.

Roy