Blackbirds in the field.
Count them, a baker’s dozen.
Quiet, so quiet they are.
Too quiet for April.
But then April is a
rather quiet month.
No one remembers
April. Thirty unremembered
days. Eleven other busy
months, so many noisy
months. Thirteen birds
standing quietly in a lonely
field in April.

In the quiet month of
April wars rage. Starving
children die. Murderers
and rapists and thieves
live alongside the rest of
society, governments
stab each other with
rhetoric. No one
will remember any of this
when the quiet month of
April passes.

People pray noisy prayers.
They cry Heal the infirmed,
oh Lord!
Save us from distress, dear God!
God is quiet in the month
of April. God is quiet because
he remembers. The prayers
will be forgotten next month.
In the month of May, the
faithful will forget their
noisy prayers. Maybe someone
died. Maybe they drowned in
their distresses.

In April, in a quiet and lonely field,
thirteen blackbirds stand quietly.
I find myself standing
still, too, thinking of those blackbirds
and how maybe they remember
during this month of April.

© t.m.d.
24 April 2008


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