Soft Opening #2

At the outer edge of Shreveport--
  birds on a distant wire.
There is no wind.  They remain unswayed.

They appear painted, discrete marks of darkness
in the foreground.   It would be easy to invest them with-- something--
a way to mark the end of a time when you
somehow survived--but that would
suggest they had something to say
about a world in which they have no investment,
being birds.

So let them stay there, birds on a distant wire,
the day dying behind them--
 the sun nothing much--
for as long as the day is
not yet night
you might arrive
as a fragment
from a lost language newly-deciphered,
unearthed in
mid-air.