Winter Flock

A flight of whirling wings, molded by the wind,
billowed in convex-concave contortions,
folding over and over and into themselves
like recklessly kneaded bread, while
the whole black cloud twisted in violent graces
against the bleak December air.

Through a sudden plummet they stretched,
each one pulling down the next,
until their column came, first to last, to rest,
reforming, from trunk to tip, a tree,
where on every bare boned winter branch
feathered leaves shifted and rustled
without the slightest breeze.





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