We sleep together in the dark but confuse light with love.
Thus drivers inching southward will see the phalanx of birds heading west as one spontaneous gesture.
Carried by light, images remain while sensation is so evanescent as to be always beyond belief.
The ghosts swarm. They speak as one person. Each has left something undone.
The crowd is made of little gods, and there is still no heaven.
The fear that all this will end. The fear that it won't.