The Flock

I saw it when I was tired and pained,
trudging up the hill in the soupy air.
It was a little cloud, shimmering,
against the opal sky.
It flew across the valley and doubled back,
changing color with the morning light.
A dozen little feathered diamonds against the opal sky.
I smiled like a child who’s just found a silver dollar,
shimmering with the changing light.

I’d seen a similar thing before,
In the old world, in the city of seven hills,
but it was a larger flock then, a multitude,
looking for loaves or fishes.
Dark giant feathered lumps of coal against the smoky sky,
growing, shrinking, flexing,
swooping, absorbing the air.
I’d gazed and shivered and snapped pictures
at the flock of shadows against the smoky sky.

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