A poem by Willma Gore.
Crosshatching precious blue
with hard black lines –
These blots on nature's sky
Sustain our power needs
and hum in monotone.
Now, huddled, feathered shoulders close,
Beaks toward a new day's sun,
A robin flock festoons the lines
And, to an unseen maestro's beat,
Cadenzas off to rise and wheel,
Returns again to perch and warm their backs.
Silken shoulders meshed again,
They chat of worms sunk deep in sod,
And safe on lofty wires they sing of spring,
The hard black lines against the blue
Offend my eyes
But recommend a bird's-eye view.