Strings of feathered jewels—

Kilometre long, wing-span wide—

Swing their way offshore,

Droplets of former slumbers

Cutting waves that break

A mere metre below.

And yet for all the activity,

All the life in motion,

Air remains calm and silent,

Noises of picine harvests

Forgotten echoes of

Never-ending plunder.

Lines cross lines,

Ballets borne on air,

Eddied whorls tipping

Extended wings askew,

Halting premature end

Of missioned journeys.

Home is the current’s flow,

The wind’s dance;

Time’s of no consequence

When birds take wing.