Flock

Flock

Fifty birds converge over a tree,
in the tree, seem to become
the dark branches.

For a minute, no shadows but
the tree’s shadow. Once all
the birds land

where the leaves should be,
it’s easy to see them as
leaves, easy not

to see them there. The tree,
teeming with birds, holds
still. One minute

more, and the tree exhales,
the bark loosens, shatters,
lifts, and scatters.