Geese go over in a mob, flying this way and that. A flock of juncos at the woods’ edge rises and falls to the rhythm of its own wind.


  1. Here, too, the air fills more often now with the sudden
    spasm of wings– pausing at the junction for the light

    to change, you wonder about metaphors,
    about how starlings wheel in unison: at first,

    a ribbon wound round and round the milky
    breasts of hills, and then no more

    than a tiny constellation stippling the sky;
    how everything’s feathered by the rhythm

    of its own wind, rising and falling
    even after the gears have turned.

    ~ Luisa A. Igloria
    12 23 2010

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