that your thoughts—
just like
individual pigeons—
simply take pleasure
in glomming together,
swooping
in formation
over life's roofs
and branches—then
fracturing again
at the slam
of a car door, or
the odd boom
of thunder, or
the approach of another
creature who is lost
in just such a musing?
At first, the observation
is a little confusing;
then suddenly, all this
retreating and reforming
starts to seem
more like
an endgame
than a metaphor.
You're not sure
what it is, but
there's probably
a lesson here.
