Magpies like mobsters roam the mottled sky, the heavy taint of tragedy
behind each interchange. Judgments, too,
rising and falling like the iridescent shimmer of their looping
flight; like the almost automatic imposition of a numbers
game, making the magpies mean sorrow, secrets or
gold. The finches on the feeder have all
fled and in the Escalonia bush, a veritable
murder of the pied invaders cackles and flaps.
Innocence is what we rob from them by these assignments:
we do it to each other too:
slip one another into the moulds of expectation –
there the guilty, that the one to blame.
How wonderful if we, dissolving into the open day, could see the turning
flow of particles and stars and, here, on this marbled surface, now,
feel how the transformation of energy to life’s a secret we
effortlessly share. Realised by being, we might watch,
free the fearful critic into wings, dancing in the wind,
clouds moving, mottling the distant sky.