Magpie Sonata

by Mark Terrill

The black and white of it all;
ancient majestic oak trees
blasted over in the storm —
entire rows of birch and poplar
knocked down flat across
undulating country roads and fields.
But the magpies’ nest high in the ash
is still there — and the magpies too —
I hear them as I come up the driveway,
reconciled by their presence —
the diametrical opposition
of their two–tone color–scheme
(with that iridescent shimmer
of metallic cobalt blue),
gracefully united in the
complementary relationship
that some munificent god
might have given them —
their clacking tempestuous chatter —
one–on–one, back–and–forth,
black–and–white —
ringing in my ears like some
avian Scarlatti sonata
swiftly hacked out on a
vintage Underwood typewriter.