Flight Pattern
I once knew what they are called.
In one short reach
I could satisfy the
wondering.
But my arms are wrapped
against the cold
spring wind, the wind
that funnels the small birds
above my head.
In groups of four to six
they playfully swoop
and dart.
From the small openings
in the high dunes,
out into
the soaring wind,
and back home again.
Back and forth,
to and fro;
following some
ancient evolutionary
algorithm.
Like the friendship
I have on offer,
that is too simple
and consistent
for your fickle,
uncertain heart.
