In the end there is nobody out there.

The female blackbird bounces on the lawn

in the late afternoon, tossing up worms,

harvesting the edge of the flower bed

in two-legged hops, and off between the trees.

A black address book by the phone gives nothing:

Hello. A chat. Goodbye. It isn’t that.

A son, a friend, a neighbour. In the end

it booms; you hear it. Nobody is there.

From fence to fence the male birds shadow her

as if on guard, protective of their genes,

a square of grass and daisies briefly theirs,

– is briefly mine, but no one really cares

or knows why we are here or what it means.