Bianca Stone
Migration
This time of year the birds are making elegant mobs,
tragic and sinister in gathering clouds.
It always made me sad to see the one trailing at the end,
falling behind, tripping like a foot of a musical note,
dark dots making swirls over
and around the obscene billboards and grim buildings
gathering in the empty trees like relentless matching ornaments,
no distinction between them from this distance,
their eyes kept from me, their hearts, beating blue-red compasses
leading to Florida. I watch them like a child might watch a father love
another child better—
smashing into commuter planes or into a sky-blue tower,
(the greatest trick of humans, making the sky into matter—)
those little feathery dinosaurs stopping at the mall ponds
to drink, calling out to one another, sensing the change
in the wind, working as a team—it makes me want
to get stoned on the front steps. Lit from within like a Chinese lantern—
seeing these migrating jewels, elegant survivors,
feathered delicacies, musical geniuses, flinging like a ballerina
made up of smaller ballerinas,
these small dwindling barrettes of Nature—
there’s simply nothing more important than them making it—
I want to haul my mattress out onto the roof
and forget my cat, down in the bedroom.
I want to compare them to the stars, to light, to pepper.
I want to follow them. Want to do something
other than take this exit off the freeway
and leave them in my rear view mirror:
fumbling clear black angels, backup dancers, flawless cheerleading squad
from some more transcended universe
piling up on one another, perfectly—swallowing the sky like a silk scarf,
above, silent, powerful, better than me, in every way,
hustling over the shipwrecked world.