In Early April

A white spiral of pelicans slowly drains down

out of a pink late afternoon, settling onto a pond

far in the distance, its surface reflecting the sky

like an opening, a second sky showing through

from beneath, the prairie no more than a film

between the heaven above us and another below,

the pelicans all of one mind, gliding down,

none of them beating one wing in resistance,

before passing through to the bright other side.