The Flock

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I had walked  
a few steps  

of chalk cold  
asphalt toward  

the front door  
when the rustle and rush  

of blackbusted air  
caught me up  

dead on my feet.  
A feathering fluttering  

crease in my ears,  
its shear of wind  

stuttering  
west to east  

leaving me at peace  
a grounded bird.  

In a blink  
the flock of swallows  

swallowed  
me whole then blinked 

out of sight.  
Left me wondering in their wake  

what to make of all  
our intersecting.  

Some moments we fight  
in nightsilence.  

Some moments the fight  
gone, going white  

like morning’s  
first birds light the dawn. 

This dawn, this soul,  
loud with the joy of having  

unconsciously, undeservedly  
walked into flight.  

I am aware of  
the likelihood of never  

stepping into such  
grace again ever.