july sunday..

out in the yard on just-cut grass
three blackbirds and a starling are skating from the shed to the clothesline

a ping of birdsong pulls me from the kitchen table
to stand in sunlight by the open door.
I stare through wire screen diamonds
and breathe in my own stillness..

they sift through cuttings, squabble, dance and -
to the windchimes' ripple underneath the eaves -
the starling wings its way to the birdbath,
dips its beak and sunlit body
into the middle of that stone waterhole,
flicks out the washing-up, then
like bells that play one note
over and over and over
those blackbirds break into song,
a one bell choir
on a winter afternoon..