All clear on the tarmac, the blackbird lands,
And there his stick-feet linger, while his
eyes sweep Auvergne’s newly-leaved trees.
Like a minister in sober attire who heeds a call,
he faces the wilderness’ calm with an open heart,
patiently awaiting a sign that this is the spot:
That by this road, he should assemble his nest.
Its raven top retains a freshly pressed look and
without a car in sight, only the wind makes music
through the bodies of the gathered trees. And they,
meantime, feed on the life-giving sun.