here they soar, unaware of their soaring
corbeaux, black dots on blue
frames aloft and straining
down below, on a hot dusty street in Port of Spain, I watch them,
but hardly anyone looks up.
Blackbirds, the bane of bodies of workers that walk along Maraval Road for their hot lunches
hardly anyone looks up.
Somewhere in another hot dusty place
different birds will fly,
they will be terrible and merciless
they will look up,
and watch the gifts of death as they fall
and cry out