For I cannot tell
   the flit of birds through
       the flailing leaves
           which is which
                and who is who

where leaves make
      like feathers
          and float out to sea
               where sundown meets
                      the curve of the earth

that’s where you’ll find them.

That’s where they’ve always been.

Congregating on the currents
         steering by starlight,
                for it is the nowness,
                     and only the nowness,
                                       that is ours.

10.23.22