red-winged blackbirds
The Blackbird and the Gingko Tree by Etta Blum
I did not dream this thing.
The blackbird flew to the gingko tree
when the sun was plump in the sky.
It was later than dawn,
long past the hour of dream.
The blackbird landed on the tip
of the top, stretched tall.
Curve of bird, tail to beak,
satin-shining sleek he stood
and became part of that wood.
Was it bird or was it wind
that swung the gingko tree?
The bird was larger for a bird
than the tree was for a tree.
It was five-branched, gawkily.
But spring had garlanded
its boughs with fanshaped leaves.
The gingko was a slim young tree
living its second spring.
I was present at its planting.
The blackbird looked, and I
with the blackbird over the lilac
orchard into the cherry trees.
"Not time yet for the roses," I thought
and tried to see what the blackbird thought.
