They uncurl,

upswept like blown leaves

against the wintering sky,

to scrawl their message

in an organization

of wings

that glitter and smoke;

a collective of separate,

weightless bodies

coalescing –

We must leave

       must leave

                 leave

While the sun yet feeds

their hollow bones

and propels

their starry wings,

that they might return

once the world renews

its tilt and they bear

new songs

to sing.

 

— C.Birde, 11/16