Some birds sit alone.
I noticed that, in mornings etched in chill.
On a wire,
the one holds fast to a space that is far from the group,
singular silhouette
against a waking sky.
But that outline is as solid as the mass of them
and seems stronger, still
than all together,
that scatter with the passing of a car or breeze.
That one alone
remains suspended,
and its quiet mass
is as great as the flapping of one hundred wings.
The one that sits alone
is the one I remember.
Michele G. Writes 