A large flock of small birds in the trees at the edge of the woods, hovering, diving, fluttering up like brown leaves returning to the tree.



    It would be a murky deluge in reverse,
    should these leaves find themselves
    rampaging back to quivering branches,
    like snarling currents breaking through
    porous earth to reclaim what is theirs.

    But this magical return to shorn foliages
    would be a gentler dance with the wind,
    quite unlike the clutch of moss and mud
    that has turned the hillsides into brackish
    blankets of debris and ruptured places.

    A mime of frolicking birds prepping up
    for a sullen fall robbed of the rain of leaves?
    Mirroring the river’s angry repossession
    of the land, the large flock of small birds
    skitter through the trees like fluttering

    leaves returning to trembling branches
    that are perhaps askance at playing hosts
    once again to fallen comrades that leave
    when the leaving is easy, when the dying
    is de rigueur, when goodbyes are left unsaid.

    —Albert B. Casuga

  2. Aren’t these lbb flocks wonderful, marionetted en masse into a tree? I never spot a single flap: just effortless ascension. Returning leaves, indeed.

  3. And this one too. Lovely image.

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