Crow Flight

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At twilight we rest,

in the cool air.

Gazing up watching

the crows arrive from the east,

drawn to the western sky

by some invisible thread -

to night perches in far off trees.

 

First one,

then the next,

then four,

then a cluster of twenty perhaps more.

Repeating this over and over,

they fly as the evening falls.

 

Then there are the ones who are behind,

the single ones,

their wings flapping madly to catch up with the others,

the faster, the ones who didn't linger.

We cheer them on,

hoping they too can make it home

before the dark descends,

these stragglers are our heroes tonight.

 

Who knows why they fly this way.

Temperature and light

signaling the time to come home.

Signals imperceptible to us.

 

The way to find home

is to follow the waning light,

the cooler breeze,

to trust the setting sun.