Member Poem

Just before dark, the dark shapes come,
winging between apartment blocks,
rasping in discordant keys 
between the naked maples, flocks
of formlessness, each flapping from
some further tracery of trees.

Flying, they shriek in playful battle
en route to their roost to sleep away
the cold. Creeping across each lawn
and knoll and roof, the beast of prey
we know as “frost” is primed to rattle
hollow bones until the dawn.

Most head southeast, some head northwest,
or ensconce themselves in the little stand
of hardwoods beyond my windows. The gale
whistles its airs across the land,
testing all creatures, whether dressed
in fur or feathers. Some will fail—

even those with plumes like night.
While on my walk today, I found
three frozen in an empty lot.
Those coal-black snowflakes ranging around
the city through the slanting light
don’t give their dead an ounce of thought.

Or, if they do, how might it show?
They stain the sky, flying, crying,
champions at not colliding—
murderous birds not keen on dying.
With a cryptic script I’ll never know,
they are streaking, scribbling, heaven-writing.