A Murmuration

You listen carefully for when
the birds stop using their beaks
as weapons; begin to touch
hidden springs in the wood
to hear again the voice 
of someone who's floated 
away as if to another world. 
It hasn't happened yet—
though your whole body leans
into the brightest absence 
that's aching to be filled.   
What you long for, they 
long for. A reeling throng 
covers the sky; a hundred 
wings the color of ash.