Murmuration

If we move with the fluidity of starlings,

like a puddle of clippings in the air that shape-

shifts but never falls hard to the ground,

if we sense enough of each other to know

in which direction to fly away from being

preyed upon, but never from one another,



in swirls and with the unshakable faith

that wherever we turn we will be synchronal,

miming in a language only our bodies



comprehend the intention of our design,

the spaces we will fill up and disappear from.

We will be spirals and domes, we will make



mountains and geysers and open mouths

in the sky, an unnoticed eclipse at twilight

as our bodies thrum and flutter without



leading, only the sense of same direction,

of how moving together this way

makes us impenetrable to hawk and falcon,



how having no intention of place or time

allows us to tighten our formation, but leave

space enough not to tangle feather or wing.