As we hurtle down the grey freeway,
yellow lines sucked under the car,
one after another, after another,
a flock of birds, — no, a swarm —
bursts from a stand of naked oaks,
black and craggy, and takes flight.
I have never seen so many birds,
black dots against pale snow clouds,
like pixels dispersed on plain paper,
as if God were a pointillist. Perhaps
a hawk landed nearby, or an advancing
storm has vibrated the slim branches.
As I drive and the birds disperse (now
the sky is a poem, more white space
than words) I wish for the dots to gather
again, assemble into shapes, a symbol,
a sign that says all the world believes
we are headed in the right direction.