It was snowing At the sight of blackbirds
When the blackbird flew out of sight Why do you imagine golden birds?
Among twenty snowy mountains.
XV Once, a fear pierced him:
I was of three minds Traced in the shadow
In which there are three blackbirds Of one of many circles
And lucid, inescapable rhythms . . . Was the eye of the blackbird.
The beauty of inflections.
XVI The river is moving
The blackbird whirled in the autumn For blackbirds —
winds. An indecipherable cause.
But I know, too,
The blackbird sat XXII
In the cedar limbs. It was evening all afternoon.
Icicles filled the long window
XVII And it was going to snow.
A man and a woman. The blackbird must be flying.
A man and a woman and a blackbird.
I do not know which to prefer,
The shadow of the blackbird
Or the beauty of innuendoes.
Bill Waters, 2015
Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird, by Wallace Stevens