A shifting net of birds swelling over the pasture, turning, an amoeba, now dark and granular as dying, now an invisible, a thin fluid slicing light. Folding, the winged black knot splits. Plunges. My heart tumbles in the dark, and against the backlit sky I am a bird”one of a crew of sparrows, a weightless ha’pennys- worth. We fly bunched, then abruptly string ourselves parallel on threads of phone wires, vibrating as a thousand voices hum through our beads of claws. And off again. My retina crowds with flight patterns inking the hollow where wind has sucked away, leaving the sky a great stillness. God. These are not words of birds. Some cries are black beyond language. I feel, clotting on my tongue like a shadow feather, a sparrow is falling. A sparrow is falling.