Poem by Sally Thomas

A grackle called from the greening backyard oak,

One long derisive note. The sky hung white

Above the house. Inside, still half-awake,

I listened to the neighborhood. The quiet

Gave way to dogs and hens, the first rough stroke

Of someone’s pickup engine. Rising light

Seeped in like water through the plastic blind.

The day stepped forward, meaning to be kind.

The day stepped forward, meaning to be kind,

I thought, because I liked the thought. Preferred

The time to have intent, the world a mind

Attuned to goodness. Still the new leaves stirred

In random patterns, each leaf like one hand

That clapped itself on air and never heard

What sound it made. The grackle’s taunting call

Said, This is it. There’s nothing else. That’s all.

So this is it. There’s nothing else. That’s all,

The grackle said. But what do grackles know

Except the wind that chuffs them, every squall

An up-thrust wave they breast and surf and row?

Alive, sleek, shining-dark, all rudder-tail

And hollow bone, they don’t ask where to go,

Or how. What time they have suffices them.

I don’t remember now the day that came—

I don’t remember now the day that came

To me. I lay in bed and heard the quiet,

That one note piercing it. The waking dream

Of memory loses focus there. The light

Remains, that rose so grayly in that room

To bring me news of other things in flight,

And waken me to my own life, although

What kindness that day wrought I do not know.

Sally Thomas