Autumn SkiesAutumn skies. You restless thrushes,
that flew in swarms over the cross
on the church’s red cupola,
the black iron cross hammered
by an ingenious blacksmith,
thrushes black as the flowering
cross, that with short flights
brought hope of rain
to the dead season, I understood
the weather sign and, stationed
at the window, waited for the first
drops that brought your happiness
and lifted you in flights.
Where you came from, I did not know;
perhaps from the riverbanks,
messengers of new weather.
The chirping of migratory birds
replied to the quarrelsome whistling,
the white breasted lapwings
that were begging the skies
for water on the leaves of the kitchen gardens,
water on the thirst of the tanche.*