At the Frontier

The blackbird sings at

the frontier of his music.

The branch where he sat

 

marks the brink of doubt,

is the outpost of his realm,

edge from which to rout

 

encroachers with trills

and melismatic runs sur-

passing earthbound skills.

 

It sounds like ardor,

it sounds like joy. We are glad

here at the border

 

where he signs the air

with his invisible staves,

“Trespassers beware”—

 

Song as survival—

a kind of pure music which

we cannot rival.

– A.E. Stallings, “Blackbird Etude”