At the Ending of the Day

The birds of the falling
Strike distances, clear and forever.
Sight fails in the atmosphere
Of transient hope, burning,
Scented with the oils of the orient.
Tinctured with pain, flight
In forests defeats
The powers of the eternal heat,
And dies, pricked by knives,
Cut formally with blades of crystal
And steel, mourned in brackish
Seas, pulled like tides, frigid,
Electric, singing in temporary pools
Among the rising reefs, endless
Melodies of color and space.

The love of time returning, feathers,
Pinions vital and warm, traveling
Lines invisible, simply known by
Ancient instinct, the sky roads
Venerated by the flocks disappearing
From the sight of empty horizons,
Grey hues shot with violet
At the ending of the day.