Migration

At dusk and dawn the air is filled with wings, redwing blackbirds becoming a dark cloud; they are a whistling choir when this mass sings. Even feathers in such numbers are loud. I look up the river and see them for miles like a great black road of that curves through the sky So massive and thick are these airborne piles that I think I could lay on them and fly Then, I would ride that black feathery street over the rivers and cities and farms till my mystic, flying journey’s complete in through your door, to your room, in your arms Then, holding you, looking you in the eye though grounded firm, I’d continue to fly.