Blackbirds gather for sunset.
Grackles group and gripe high in Sra Cruz’s border cedars.
These venerable trees stand tall against the drought,
but for how much longer is anyone’s guess.
Starlings assemble in the top of that old sweet gum down at the end of the drive,
naked limbs all askew and stark against a scudded, waning sky.
Just for giggles, I suppose, grackles glide en masse from there to there,
quietly intimidating their crossyard rivals.
Red-wings -- a sentimental favorite now that their lake is all but gone --
blend in around the edges of deepening dusk, spread out on perches of opportunity.
You hear them more than you see them.
Too windy for a fire, and that’s less than heartbreaking.
Perhaps the gusts have grounded the cardinals and finches,
conspicuous in their absence.
Or perhaps I’ve been overstocking the bird buffet?
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