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The Shape of Birds By Mary Christine Delea It’s as if they are made of snow, formless, or they are tiny ferries emitting foghorn noises, bleats that fall over us. They do not soothe us with precise shapes but come in many ways, defying geometry, fluid, becoming defined only when they meet a fender, halo of headlights, the truth of death awakening us from the lull of driving and fancy.
And yet the birds, suddenly airborne, surprise us in their constancy: they are everywhere, changing shapes in the sky above, us watching from our cars below on our immense and angry highways and we drive in tandem with birds, making us nostalgic for our own ancestral link to fluidity, that time when water was close within us, when shapes weren’t so constant, when seeing birds brought omens and portents, and, standing as unprotected as they, we lifted our arms.
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