Posted in Poetry

March Jackdaws

Jackdaws — more than two or three, but not as many as ten — perched over me on bare branches halfway down the steep passage from Rampart Lane to Upper O’Connell Street. The congregation, midnight against the soft gray of a drizzly March morning, chattered in the jackdaw tongue, which they must have assumed I didn’t know, making the same tiresome, wry observations they always make about human naïveté — about our residuum of misplaced confidence that the fantastic complexity of the cosmos means any damn thing at all. Then, off they flew toward Multose church.

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