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