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. 

 

Now

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 

the clearest

blue sky.