Looking up, I now see sky,

how it tried to warn us


Fall’s early chill, its hard

snowfall suppressing

unsuspecting branches —


That nasty-breathed wind

all gossipy and proud

for no apparent reason —


Those goppish* gaggles,

not so grand, squabbling south

and fast across the borderland —


Scientists say a flock knows

when to swerve and

where to sway

by correlative agreement

of one member with its

seven closest neighbors,

and them to theirs, and so on.


(A drama of swarm)


Exponential wholeness, then,

rises wingtip to wingtip

stirring up the light.


Had we all been sleeping?

Were we collectively unwise?

Will hate extinguish every star?

Can we rewrite the skies?

(c) Deborah Jang. All rights reserved.