Where were they headed, the one winged birds
tilted to compensate, dependent on thermals
to lift them over the mountains, and that annual blast
from the Gulf of Alaska to carry them far as Peru?
They seemed various ages, as much as 4,000 years
separating young from old, and they sang one song
with as many bold variations as throats. Their flight
was song and soaring. Through the county telescope
we saw they were various colors and shapes. Some
had belligerent beaks and others relied on the warmth
of their tints. Each seemed little alone. But when
we zoomed back and scanned, as a group they glowed
like glory children believe. We watched them
burn into dots, into nothing, and turned back
to our plowing as if they never had passed.