Swerve
deborah jang
Looking up, I now see sky,
how it tried to warn us
Fall’s early chill, its hard
snowfall suppressing
unsuspecting branches —
That nasty-breathed wind
all gossipy and proud
for no apparent reason —
16
Those goppish gaggles,
not so grand, squabbling south
and fast across the borderland —
Scientists say a flock knows
when to swerve and
where to sway
by correlative agreement
of one member with its
seven closest neighbors,
and them to theirs, and so on.
(A drama of swarm)
Exponential wholeness, then,
rises wingtip to wingtip
stirring up the light.
Had we all been sleeping?
Were we collectively unwise?
Will hate extinguish every star?
Can we rewrite the skies?