three blackbirds
as fat as cats
perch like statues
atop three old
fence posts
lined up in a row
which lean awkwardly
along the side
of the road.
in the distance
ogonowski’s barn sits
on a low rise,
its red painted sides
just a bitter memory
as long beams
of bare wood
bake in this late
afternoon sun.
given time even blackbirds
will fly far from these
overgrown fields
choked with thistle
and clover
as his once fertile farm
lies fallow now,
returning to dust
and weeds.
