My wings are brown, not black and shiny.
I'm always peeping out through leaves.
I try and keep above the fear trilling below,
I know they are ingesting bitter roots.
And yet I swallow their song all the same.
The empty smoke of hope that arises,
as I am the Blackbird mother sitting,
gathering material and protecting you,
refined in pointless expectation.
I am a gust of failure that ruins,
I drop no wonder on the chaos,
just anxious tearing wounds
of the child mother that hatched.
I am injecting and tethering your breath,
so you can oscillate when you fly.