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.