Ravens and Geese

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The geese are leaving Babylon.

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	They’ve seen enough of giants

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tossing rocks at flowers. Their

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	beaks are brittle from calling

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“Fire!” Oh, how it spits! Ashes

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	feather their thrumming bodies,

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sour songs singed and weary.

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	"Who will lead the way to

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a garden without towers? Who

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	will repair our wings

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with flowers?" Still, the geese are

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	leaving—feathers

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Aflame.

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An unkindness circles a glassy pond,

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quizzical eyes transfixed on the sky::

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The ravens are watching Icarus.

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Between the trees he floats,

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borne on updrafts by waxen wings.

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Their birdminds fill with memories of

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waxwings bending for blood red berries—

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terns gyring the sky with their tails. All the

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birds they’ve known.

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A reflected chorus of “watch out!” and

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“Beware!” “Air is for the birds!”

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I wonder if birds were human in another life,

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felt the drizzle of wax down their legs

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as the sun drew them closer. Perhaps they

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grew feathers on the way to earth, where

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they lie in beds of nettles.

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I wear the nettle shirt.