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.
