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At first I thought they were flying north.
I tried to get my bearings.
They doubled back and over themselves, weaving bird
through bird, without direction, but with
purpose; twenty, fifty, a few hundred:
squawking greetings like so many Asian tourists,
or relatives in friendly arguments
about the best route to take,
circling, finally landing,
a cascade of wings and bodies into the water,
gathering their numbers to divide again into perfect Vs, the arrows
that point towards warmer climes.
I laughed with them, an
outsider who gets not the joke
but the intonation,
wished them a safe journey,
and turned north