Howard Firkin
It’s just another blackbird in the leaves
that’s making sudden footsteps off the path,
another ring-eyed lunatic who needs
a few deep breaths before he falls apart
and falls again upon those softer lives.
A family meets family. They move
around and through and reassemble past—
the trees hang leaves into the lake and smooth
their own reflections from it—for their part
the children swap quick glances, husbands wives.

Another turn before it’s night or spring…
like all of us they’re just around the bend…
Tomorrow’s birds will feed here, preen, and sing,
and love affairs surprise us all and end.