Still, the shape the winds love best to become

is that of their oldest, dearest companions—birds.

Swallows and great geese take flight together,

and no one bothers with the human fixation

on names, on ranks, on the dividing lines of will and world.

All frames fall away—

flesh, form, the illusion of the other.

White-winged birds tear through every notion.

Each collision a burst, each burst a fusion,

until from the blaze of white flame

emerge birds more immense, more strange, more unbound than before.

Fearless, they soar.

And now—

the nocturne of wind and night

rises toward its wildest crescendo.