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Poem

Like a mess of hooting school kids freed for vacation,
They come honking and scolding

Long before you see them they come honking and scolding

Hidden from sight by leafy trees,
They are loudly scolding, urging, bragging,
“Get flapping”. “My turn to lead.” “Your turn to lead. “Let Fergus lead,”
I imagine. 

When at last overhead I can see them and they are honking, without rhythm. 
Honking, and forming lines;

A long line at first, a perfect line, 
Then a splinter slides astride 
And two perfect lines form, a skewered vee.

A flying wing it is now, yawing left, and then yawing right, 
Sensing the wind’s direction, its velocity,
Looking for a helping wind. Looking for a lift.

And honking and scolding.

They pass behind more leafy trees and they are gone,
Still honking and scolding,
Still searching for the streaming air.

And going southward.

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