Thursday, November 8, 2012

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.

4 comments:

  1. Amazing artwork.

    Right before the hurricane came through, scores of black birds gathered at the tops of two of our tallest trees and sat there screetching. The topsides were covered. An incredible sight, which your poem aptly describes.

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  2. Yes, it's exactly like that. I'm looking more closely at nature lately, and camouflage is one of the powers I never paid enough attention to.

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  3. Yes, and at this time of year there are so many at the end of the day--
    I love it!

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  4. Elegantly terse. That ending was awesome, had true power.

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