By: JD DeHart

Two blackbirds sitting on the fence,
one slightly lower in its stance,
watch us pass by as if they should be
two old ladies, reincarnated as birds.
Somewhere close, a dove has twigged
together a small nest, burying itself
out of their gleaming predatory sight.
The mortality of the blackbird is mystery
giving way to a preference for pretending
these are the same birds who watched
Hector dragged around the city walls,
the same birds who watched my younger
self, learning life in games and shouting.