Satori

I paused today
to watch the ballet
of two blackbirds on the next door roof,
not aloof.
One heard a car going past
and flew away
fast.
The other sat for a little while
and left a pile
of white drippings.
The sound of his wings is
a rustle in the breeze
as he lands once more
by the first.
They turn their heads
to their own beats
instead of together in neat
rhythm.
At once it makes sense.
There is no Buddha.
Only blackbirds.
Enlightenment
in the hint
of each feather.