Sixty Years Later I Notice, Inside A Flock Of Blackbirds,
the Venetian blinds
I dusted off
for my mother on
Saturday mornings,
closing, opening them
with the pull cord a few
times just to watch the outside
universe keep blinking,
as the flock suddenly
rises from November stubble,
hovers a few seconds,
closing, opening,
blinking, before it tilts,
then vanishes over a hill.
I dusted off
for my mother on
Saturday mornings,
closing, opening them
with the pull cord a few
times just to watch the outside
universe keep blinking,
as the flock suddenly
rises from November stubble,
hovers a few seconds,
closing, opening,
blinking, before it tilts,
then vanishes over a hill.
Share this column
Disclaimer
We do not accept unsolicited submissions. American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Poem copyright ©2013 by David Allan Evans from his most recent book of poems, the Carnival, the Life, Settlement House, 2013. Poem reprinted by permission of David Allan Evans and the publisher. Introduction copyright © 2024 by The Poetry Foundation.