I lift my head
to see a magpie staring back at me
as though he had been drawn to my side
by the hollow of my grief.
I’m sitting on the proverbial grassy knoll
drinking diet coke—
the red and black label
brash and unseemly
against the simple veracity
of his black and white.

The wind speaks to the blossoming tree:
pale petals drift over his head
like applause, fall at his feet
like scented bouquets.
Unconscious of my artful adoration
he sings to the moment
with a two-tone call—
effortless communion
as simple as breath.