Fleeting

Again, the flock of birds dives

through this narrow canyon of steel and glass

catching a current as it eddies between the upper stories.

Their silver wings flash,

scooping up spiraling winds

before casting off from the gathered force.

There are two dozen of these birds, at least –

an unknown quantity of an unnamed breed.

They are too consumed with their choreography

to alight for classification.

On the ground far below, an altogether different breeze

laps at the edge of the streets

like a child dipping a bucket in the creek.

It sweeps seed-pods hitched to feathered propellers

into the gutters and cracks

where they pop underfoot.

Invisible ovate dust

flags down the yet another passing gust

and hitches a ride to some distant inch of soil

where it will burrow in and wait out the storm

that is surely coming.

Does each airstream stand alone,

with its distinctive pace

and a place waiting in the heavens?

It is nice to imagine that a thing without a name

can still claim edges

and a fate.

But we all know the truth.

This column of air

carries both seeds and wings

and is bound

to the one whipping up wildfires in San Antonio,

ferrying bats and carrying off the Stetsons of drunken cowboys.

It is the same as the scouring shriek atop Everest

and the whisper on your cheek

at this very moment.

Every breeze is one single, ancient being,

older than the Hebrew god,

predating even the pterodactyls who rode its current

through the canyon of cliffs

long since returned to the bottom of the sea.