In the windy season the birds

leave their perch without intent,

whisked sideways by a breeze

that feels like a hand slapping

them loose from the branches

that should but don’t provide

shelter at this time of year when

flying is a war with the weather.

Are we not sheets, battered like

these birds by something fierce

that pulls us flat-out and snapping

from the line until at last the pegs

yield and one or the other of us

vaults skyward and is gone?

© Dana Hughes 3.5.18