(28 April - 4 May 1989) after William Wordsworth
I pedal frantically along the road like the witch in the hurricane, while in the field beside me always, blackbirds cling to stalks of weeds above the new grass in the open field, clinging to weeds above the green grass. The blackbirds call out their distances in clear metallic voices always with the regularity of weavers. The season is early April and they call. Away from one, another calls, and away from him, another calling. The brown females are not in sight, but the males cling against the breeze. Their red shoulders flash the defiance of their shiny black bodies, one male against another in the field, different enough from us to matter. I pedal fast going nowhere and they sing beside me in the field as I pedal red-winged blackbirds clinging to weeds in the field beside me always. The season calls and the birds answer, or the birds call and the season answers.