bluechameleon
one flew over …
Sing a song of evening,
A pocketful of awe,
Fourteen blissful blackbirds,
Perched on a wall.
When the sun has turned to shade,
The birds begin to sing.
‘Tis nothing quite so grand as this,
A nightfall in mid-spring.
Thirteen face the dark’ning sky,
One turns toward the morrow.
Tips her beak, lifts her wings,
And steals the whole damn show.
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