Beneath the eaves, birds startle awake to sing, adding new grace notes to the rich cadenzas that reverberate in early light. At this time of increase, even the crow s rough throat is oiled with content. Some ride the thermals high above the sooty canyons of the town. Instead of trees, they come in to roost on impossible ledges where only a wing-fold hides their eyes from the neon night. Higher still, the kestrel makes a stoop through murky air.
Birds are our strange familiars.
We used to think them Gods and they taught us how to fly. If they cease to thrive their dwindling chorus will supply our requiem. I wanted to finish with this poem because there are both good and bad things in it, and with good and bad present, there is twice as much to learn from. Ruth s other poems have been shorter. Poetry is its own announcement, and a very good one, but that s easy to forget when you re poised at line fifteen and looking for a grand ending.