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.