a poem in my pocket

Those blackbird gangs in the grove are
raucous; noisier than an Iowa caucus.

They do not sing but loudly gripe;
more dreadful than the sneaky snipe.

They perch on top finger of evergreen, then
sway to break top off, with laughter mean.

Do not let their lovely feathers’ sheen fool;
their blackbird hearts are ugly and cruel.

They chase the sparrows, intimidate robins;
take over a birdbath like neighborhood snobbins.

If you want blackbirds to bake in a pie,
I have recipes you’re welcome to try!