urging the birds

too late for me/

to leave the flock

be/

i live and long to look above

there, there and there… they loom on twisted tree branch

the undisturbed bold seemingly cold black bird the beauty of the independent purple martin, both true

lined and lined

straight order on telephone line

passively focused excitement building on cliff outcrop

as the ember-like glow echoes in the twilight approach;

all, they seem to ponder the night

the wind ruffled feather

each eyes the sky

looking looming

the high horizon quivering cloud

like well-worn leather

taking on the suns’ end

in red orange borders

capturing the last

of the days light/

urging the birds

bringing on flight into the night/

the birds move in unison

the ravens’ murder/the sparrows soup

they rocket up/they pour forth

they turn and dive

O, to be that spy

to feel that alive.