Wheeling across the sky,
a murmuration of starlings and
the souls of the dead
to defend the stars
as they fall,
turning on that great wheel
of the chariot.
(Swing low,
sweet)ness,
fill my mouth with words
of wonder and delight
that they may sing to the sparrows
and the great horned owl
as he passes judgment on all we have done before.
Will this circle be unbroken in the time we have left?
Will our hours and minutes
lay across the calendar pages, clean and pristine
as the January snow and the lambs of springtime
that skip merrily to slaughter?
Shall we gather at the river- the long road home to glory?
What shall we forsake,
for goodness sake,
at the rising of the wind?