Fish

The birds arrive at 7:30 exactly
swoop down from above the apartment building
in flocks from the east, vast and trembling;
darting upward, they catch air currents
in perfect choreography, bank left
and dart downward. Thousands move in,
plummet into the treed expanse below
in a swell of chirping, a constant squawking chorus.
I look down from the balcony onto trees:
leaves and limbs bounce from the gentle weight
of so many birds. They dart and dive into leaves,
move from branch to branch in graceful arcs
like fish leaping in and out of green waves.

My voice cannot climb above the crescendo of bird-song,
the noise obliterating traffic, neighbour's TV;
it suffocates the sounds of engines and music,
their vibrating voices amplified by trees
and the distension of air
like a swollen stomach full of fish.

I wonder how they know that it is precisely 7:30
night after night, what alerts them to the time,
draws them to the same sea of trees. How do they
know when to gather in flocks that fan out over twilit
sky when to dive into waves. What beautiful instinct
to know when to turn into a fish.