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.
