I will be a flock of birds:
many desires, one love.
Across the great migratory route
on the arc of the sky,
I will sing.
At the waterholes,
thin blue veins irrigating arid plains,
I will rest.
Beside the river valleys and estuaries—
peaceful waters—
I will leave tracks in the mud.
Even the air
will carry the weight of my wingspan.

I will be a flock of birds:
many desires, one love.
When wingbones bleach
like flotsam
against the riverbanks,
they will conjure lifelines of song.
The songline
is the way home.

Like the V-shaped current
that scoops underwing
when snow geese fly,
I will funnel the wind.
I will be like a rope
that secures the sail,
fastening sailcloth
to wood.

I will be a flock of birds.

With the fly out at dawn,
with the fly in at night,
I will be present,
wings soaring over frozen waters.
Wings will reflect
sun’s scarlet rose:
Many wings, one fire.