E. called them L.B.J.s,
Little Brown Jobs, although
at this distance, in this light,
they are tar-black, tiny, winging
against a naked sky bright and blue.
They converge from the south
and circle in a brief holding pattern
before they wheel into a far tree
like the first flakes
of a blizzard still months off.

I tamp down the impulse
to get my binoculars, and just
watch as whatever they are
arrange themselves in the topmost
wispy branches, trading places and changing
their minds before settling invisible
among leaves of a species
indeterminate also.

Theirs is the only flock
in the whole of the sky
and have seemingly come from
nowhere, nowhere being
no doubt another tree. Why
this tree, why that, it's a question
for a twitcher or biologist, but
unnecessary, isn't it? They are
L.B.J.s in a T.G.T., a Tall Green Tree
in the middle distance, in morning light,
gathered together in singular purpose.

In memory of Elizabeth Reed Curry Smith