A snow of crows

falling from a wire,

a rain of tiny gold leaves:

we are uninvited guests here,

wading into the middle,

spreading ourselves out

like a blanket.

Can we read this weather?

In the silence,

I hear that song.

I am in love with this sky,

stitched by birds,

brighter than yesterday.

We ourselves sprout wings,

lift off,

fly away.