by Myra Wollman
A swirling susurration of soaring wings
Across the sky, there’s a pattern there, a message
In the way they fly, if I only knew the language…
I don’t know why but it keeps eluding me.
If I could freeze them for a moment in a three-dimensional
Sculpture, floating free, and study every particle’s placement
Would I see? Or is it in the movement, would my efforts be
A vain grasp at letters, words escaping me?
I don’t know. The birds veer off, to go
Home, perhaps. Mine seems so far away no roads
Could take me there but the one the swallows follow,
The one that flows in the obscurity of their wings and words.
Myra Wollman lives in the cold north, where she spends her days in the classroom and her nights looking for comets in the starry sky.
Photography by Kenneth Godoy