The birds don’t alter space. They reveal it.
The sky never fills with any leftover flying.
They leave nothing to trace.

It is our own astonishment collects in chill air.

Be glad.

They equal their due moment never begging,
and enter ours without parting day.
See how three birds in a winter tree
make the tree barer.

Two fly away, and new rooms open in December.
Give up what you guessed about a whirring heart,
the little beaks and claws, their constant hunger.

We’re the nervous ones.

If even one of our violent number could be gentle
long enough that one of them found it safe inside
our finally untroubled and untroubling gaze,
who wouldn’t hear what singing completes us?

(Li-Young Lee)