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Black-billed birds

Their North-bound journey disturbed

By false currents

Blown warm from the South

Flock in fragmented formation

Like waves of bomb-heavy planes

Their cargo weighted with expectation

Unaware of where

Or when to fall

Each wing-beat more troubled

Than the last

But driven on by a curse

Which has no respite

But pulls like the call

Of a mother’s breast

The comfort of the known

Recognised without understanding

A primal urge

Which draws them on

Without promise or hope

Or comprehension

Past dangers which hover like apocalyptic hawks

Yet let them pass as if sensing

A greater bounty to come

With the passing of Spring’s

False promise

And the sinking of

A fitful Sun.

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