Falling asleep, the birds are falling
Down through the last light’s thatchwork farther than rain,
Their grace notes dwindling
Into that downy pit, where the first bird
Waits to become them in the nest of the night.

Silent and featherless,
Now they are one dark bird in darkness.

Beginning again, the birds are breaking
Upward, new-fledged at daybreak, their clapping wingbeats
Striking the sides of the sun, the singing brilliant
Dust spun loose on the wind from the end to the beginning.