Flight Path

From my perch above angled rooftops of tin, shingle, and solar panel, I see the living things, bursts of dark birds silently sweep a backdrop of sunrise pastels on their way south in journeys long stamped into their tiny hearts. They know what it is to follow. How simple it all is for them, to track seasons, the turn of the earth, the choreography their fleeting lives were inhabited to perform. What do they make of me as they flutter by, a woman watching, appointed to chronicle light and flight (this light, this flight), or the passing silhouette of a plane, dragging its monotonous roar behind it, ferrying its flock to disparate trails, not yet reached altitude, the seatbelt sign still on, the sun’s brilliance on the east side of the craft declined by the window shade shuttered to enhance facsimiles of human endeavors rehearsed on small screens. What might we do with our measure of mornings to rival the flight of these birds?