From plane of lime to plane, the sparrows fly,
their wings scythed time transfixed. The evening hawk
has gone. I watched the birds devour his wing.
While sunlight freezes on its path, they soar
to heights impossible, each tracing trails
once ridden, air-written. A few lengths more,
beat of wing to beat, and I imagine
the grease beneath their skin will melt, and plume
to plume will light, a thousand candles burnt.
But still the day remains and light, the birds
alight on rooftop edges, whispering wings
that fold the air, and daylight kneads the ground.
When night falls in the city, great lights will flicker
and flack, and signs revolve neon bright.
Where will the birds go then?