At 2 a.m in the morning the thoughts became starlings;
dispersing, flying & reforming again,
afraid a cage & the end of all freedom
lay hidden, patiently waiting.
Yet other nights they would fly above
evergreen trees, winding paths &
fresh clean streams.
Some nights the trees became
something they could never be, &
the water turned to perfect mirrors
flowing towards an endless sea.
the starlings are starved & dying,
motionless on blackened trees
above a burnt & barren ground
where there is nothing so beautiful as you,
or birds flying through