Here, too, the air fills more often now with the sudden
spasm of wings— pausing at the junction for the light
to change, you wonder about metaphors,
about how starlings wheel in unison: at first,
a ribbon wound round and round the milky
breasts of hills, and then no more
than a tiny constellation stippling the sky;
how everything’s feathered by the rhythm
of its own wind, rising and falling
even after the gears have turned.
—Luisa A. Igloria
In response to today’s Morning Porch entry.