They are nothing less than silent, swooping, gliding,
Whose calls echo through bare spring trees
And color my nights with beauty.
One calls and waits.
The answer to come when it will.
With each call, the distance lessens between their
Voices in the night.
That which fills my night heart with light and joy,
Fills the hearts of others with fear.
It is the fear of ending.
An ending that comes out of the sky
In silent, swooping, gliding, magic.
The magic of beauty or,
The magic and freedom of death.