The fog ascends
with the sound of starlings in flight,
a murmurration of wings and cloud.
Rising from the warming cove,
morning mist seeps into the budding trees,
wrapping itself through sap laden limbs
and pollen sugared boughs.
The ecstasy of birdsong on a cold spring day-
I rise on beating wings
and the sound of a thousand voices.
SO beautiful, especially the rising in your closing lines. Sigh. Perfection.