sacred to the god thoth, ibis lands to roost for the night in the scraggle pine grown old amongst abandoned boats and warehouses down at the shore there is an opening and closing of white wings between friends – perhaps some dark laughter at all we have let fall and then a bowing of heads…
they were made for this sky. wings shaped by this wind that rushes and flows over bent trees and low roofs tossing them back to the gods who named them, formed them wisp feathers of drizzle and grey-shadow, of sodden silhouette black and the startled white of light breaking below the clouds illuminating their flight…