Most days now, the rushing of wings overhead.
Startling as one, rising from the grass,
arrowing into formation;
always ahead of inadequate prophecy.
The moon leans against the roof of the world.
Most of us live in the lower levels:
there, we burnish the soil
with the fire and hunger of our bellies.
With everything this close,
even the hollow in a reed has meaning.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.