the following poem was written in response to above image--for online poetry class
poem submitted to "1458" poetry contest, Brian Strand, sponsor
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ They rise on thermals we cannot feel, these white-winged wrappers of the air~ shuddering their thin, translucent skin against the fist of every March wind. No nest to claim them, no song to sing, just the hollow rattle of their flight, the way they cling to chain-link bones like ghosts who forgot how to fall. Sometimes, in the slant of dying light, they almost fool you~ drifting lazy as herons, dipping like terns over parking lot waves. But watch one snag on barbed wire, watch it thrash and twist, and you'll know: this is a bird that cannot die, only tear itself smaller and smaller until even the wind says goodbye.
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