Blackbird Migration

BLACKBIRD MIGRATION

The trees were silhouetted sticks
against a pale and dying sky,
while the sun, all red and blurry,
was permitting the day to die.

A stream of birds flew overhead,
toward me, coming, away from me, going,
horizon to horizon,
an endles ribbon flowing.

Night filled the valleys and lowlands,
as coffee fills a cup,
and still the line wound on and on,
sometimes down and sometimes up.

I see them yet in perfect flight,
in and among the trees,
from this days sunset and falling night,
into another dawn, another day more bright.