The Plague

A Poem (As Revealed from My Back Window)

Grackles #2, #26, #27, and #13 by Carly Weaver

The Plague

No sole grackle stands upon the fence
that is not flanked by thuggish twins.
Their numbers seem to guarantee who wins—
a pair of finches yields its place
in feathered spasms of disgrace.

To forage in their stead, the row descends
upon the now forsaken earth,
imparting to the shade a darker dearth.
Like graves they seem to cleave the ground
where nameless vacancies abound. 

Through thin branches fading sunbeams search
in soft rebellion to dispel
the croaking blots, but plumes of inky hell
derisively refract the light
and do not fly, but put to flight.  

In boughs above, the finches find a perch
and preen as much to soothe their shame
as smooth their plumage. I’d have done the same—
what else can we the weak, the few
against a plague of demons do? 

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A plague is the collective term for a group of grackles (cf. a murder of crows). For the record, I like grackles and their unique social dynamics, but they do sometimes function as the pests and bullies of the avian world (among small fowl at least). I also love the little, colorful birds. In this case, I was reflecting on an amalgam of episodes observed in my backyard: house finches foraging on the ground, and the looming threat of the common grackles bristling and squeaking their way into the scene.