Murmuration

 

   

Those birds move in one organ

and the eye is another.

The flock swells into a great, brief

architecture. Naked tree

goes inside to pray. In

evening. In spirelight. In, all you

looking for order.

Furls like a hand rounding

some other’s wrist, softly.

In thousands, what myth—

what trick of the light.

 

 

 

     Jay Deshpande

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