By Tess Perdue
A cloud of blackbirds fell
down the mountain past
my open window. They streaked
into the hollow place nestled
between peaks, a flash of
night in the cool autumn sunlight.
For a minute, I was a bird,
streaking, falling, outpacing
the leaves of copper and ruby
and lighting upon a chill-stripped
branch. And then I was not;
my window closed and the
birds shattered on the ground.
