On a scroll, birds turn away from winter

That season
when what seems to be one
impalpable wish lifts
and begins to fly

toward repetition—
Such slight bodies, poorly dressed
for travel: no one tells them nothing
can be expected to remain the same.

Still, they go past the grey
shapes of rocks, searching for islands,
outrigger boats, houses on stilts
submerged twice a day by the tide—

They push through
each dusky layer: hills curtained
like leaves, convinced a lamp
once lit there remembers.

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