Air traffic control.
I wonder where the birds are going. Always somewhere. Never here. Never there.
Do they rage against the chill in the air, floating on a warm air stream?
Or perhaps they’re chasing tonight’s delicacy, tired of worms and their earthiness.
Or, just maybe, they’re skywriting “Not my president” in a language we can only feel.
Oh to be a winged thing. To be above it all.
Skywriters, born into the mile-high club.
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