The birds scatter, A hush falls over; A single flight Makes a pattern in the sky, As sun drops low to meet The horizon. Leaves shift, golden and crisp— The sound of whispers, Nature’s lullaby pierces The dull throb of existence. Twilight bends, and we draw Closer, the world vibrating Where earth meets air. We watch the light pulse, Shaping shadows, unveiling Moments caught in wings.
We thread together. Ah, to fly, even if only in thought.

• Margaret Atwood