Only the least sandpiper stayed to catch my thoughts,
birds themselves, flits of movement.

In Syria, the people are migrating
without compass, Bedouins without tents.

I feel the weight of the world, not free
like the Great White Pelican, sure of its route.

Endangered birds, the lesser kestrel, unable
to follow the fixed path to feed near waters.

In the trees next door, berries grow
up the trunk of a pine tree, into the branches,

like a musical score, lilting tempo
against the burl—a pouring out—

say the soul passing into the ethereal,
the lost feeding places, the blind going.