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Like five hundred thousand
Tiny golden birds trembling
In anticipation of flight
From their precarious perches
With a strong breath of wind
They wait to soar
Beneath their 'wings'
The air passes
They break free
From their captivity
Swirling and dipping
On their long descent
Beneath the branches
Of the birch
The flight is too brief
And they alight
Only to be raked up
By someone unsuspecting
Of their silent transformation
From leaf to bird
And back again.

K.Tate Jacoby
copyright 9/1/05

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