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Grackles step through the clover
At the curb, their bodies swaying

In the measure of a small pendulum,
The white cloverflowers brushing

Their dusky sides, wading through
It as workers at the harvest push

Through reams of standing corn,
Labouring at their passage, blank

Eyes trained secretarially on the
Earth before them : sequins of bone.

Their alien colours turn in the light,
Barely visible, a penumbra of blue

And violet and gold, uniform, dull,
Drawing heat from the staid air.

They wear cowls of faint brown.
As at some signal, one breaks from

Its pose and clatters into flight,
Towing its diamondshaped éventail.