A growing headache as the pick-up glides
on the interstate. I start to look
outside the window to soothe the pain I feel
in my temples. Remnants of trash scatter
in the wind, or wait—birds hovering
over the highway brambles. And other birds,
crows, I believe, revolve in a dance above
the truck like members of a baby-mobile
suspended and spinning while I fail to sleep.
What truth is drawn from wings and raucous caws?
Why travel this road and read the varied patterns
of flocking creatures? Maybe one could learn
how the birds are not at war with God—
perhaps I’m not to explicate the birds.
