The Signs

LEONARD NATHAN

See it, but do not blame until you see, or praise

What burns on your eye as it crosses the vastness of night;

It may be nothing, it may be the only thing left

To the thought of cities of light in the black of time.

THE SIGNS

A flight of blackbirds out of oak, live oak,

Fifty some lofting at a single blow

Into a sky so clear that not a cloud,

Not one white wisp was visible and, look,

Your hand in mine, plain vision very good,

They leave us knowing exactly what we know.

I mean, suppose that from my free left wrist

I'd just unhooded noble blood to strike

The very crest of heaven. Just suppose

Our honest blackbirds didn't go down the west,

But, at my bidding, refused to be mere prose;

They'd fly the way we feel, or very like.

It's ominous how things will not relate

To likely things, though married by command.

You've seen the signs, invented what they tell,

Guessed at some literal hunger for this flight,

Tried to make connections with a will,

Or lost some bird you thought you had in hand.