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Of an animal, especially a bird. A wandering species
whom no seas nor places limit. A seed who survives despite
the depths of hard winter. The ripple of a herring
steering her band from seas of ice to warmer strands.

To find the usual watering-places despite the gauze
of death that shrouds our eyes
is a breathtaking feat. Do you ever wonder why
we felt like happy birds brushing our feathers

on the tips of leaves? How we lifted our toes
from one bank of sand and landed—fingertips first—
on another? Why we clutched the dumb and tiny creatures
of flower and blade and sod between our budding fists?

From an origin of buried seeds emerge
these many-banded dagger wings.
We, of the sky, the dirt, and the sea. We,
the seven-league-booters and the little-by-littlers.

We, transmigrated souls, will prevail.
We will carry ourselves into the realms of light.