For the Fleet,...
December 7
The swarming black cloud of wheeling birds maneuvered
As one element of darting motion. Then, swinging, silent and dark,
Upward, turned and swooped toward me, as with one mind;
But I knew it was not so: small birds have only small brains -
But: linked together, could they move in some smartness?
Could their seeming frantic flutter not have a more sinister side?
They rushed past. The slightest song of wind through wing whispered.
Then, they were gone - that black cloud - on to a hidden nest.
The thought had been, but it came again:
It is Sunday now. It was Sunday, then.
The difference? All the years that passed;
Palm trees waving. Snow on grass.
I was young that day, but grew old then, too.
It began in a crowd. It closed with few
That remained my mates; so many sleep
And I, remaining, their watches keep.
It is Sunday, Lord! You made it so,
That we should rest: not come and go,
Our labors left outside the door -
You called us to ponder Evermore.
My dreams are sometimes full of fear.
They happen most this time of year.
When the fall-birds wing and black the sky,
I become afraid, and wonder: why?
I’m old, oh, Lord, and have lost my strength,
Have traded my might for living’s length,
But the black flock comes and goes each fall -
And I see them come - and relive it all!
It was Sunday, then. It is Sunday, now.
I’ve come this far, yet don’t know how -
Perhaps the flock on the wires above
Sing remorse at war; sings songs of love.
If that is so, my chums sleep well:
As we all await sweet morning’s bell....
12/7/97
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