Charge Of The Winged Brigades

Neatly uniformed in their timeless
distinguishing markings and uniformly
strident, they fly in orderly platoons,
an aerial armada of resilient, bold and
determined migrants, patterned by
nature to their yearly ritual, crowding
the springtime, sun-promising skies.

At night, furtively-dark travellers,
their enduring mission of return is
proudly evident in their none-too-silent
barks of unitary purpose, haunting
the atmosphere. Their ordered
flanks silhouetted against the moon
in the sky's deep, black cauldron.

Daytime finds them resting from
their fevered flights, serenely afloat
on the great swells of rivers they overfly
in the still of the dark hours. Replenishing
energy, feeding, they await the
gathering gloom of night.

Some of their numbers use daylight
hours en route to farmed fields, to roost
and peck, squat and fertilize; gather in
excited and excitable numbers beyond
count. Awaiting the signal to lift
off in formation, swelling the

atmosphere with the flight of
their restive bodies, wide-spread
wings, coasting; thrusting, parting
the clear air in their existential,
mysteriously-directed mission
of exultant imperatives.