Don’t kid yourself.
No one actually knows;
Far from it on the grand scale.
Perhaps, the birds fly upward,
And the sky opens further,
Merely to protect them,
When they enter hallowed space.
A sign of welcome, no doubt?
Yes, some find their demise
Through more earthly planes.
Maybe you’ve come across a few,
By level land, on water’s way,
Or even a predator’s fatal grasp;
It has been known to happen.
Yet consider the sheer multitude—
How they escape human detection—
What act of valor the flock displays,
Before exiting this silent void,
Leaving nothing behind,
Save their magnificent span,
Climbing higher, soaring still…

Bart Edelman’s poetry collections include Crossing the Hackensack (Prometheus Press), Under Damaris’ Dress (Lightning Publications), The Alphabet of Love (Red Hen Press), The Gentle Man (Red Hen Press), The Last Mojito (Red Hen Press), The Geographer’s Wife (Red Hen Press), Whistling to Trick the Wind (Meadowlark Press), and This Body Is Never at Rest: New and Selected Poems 1993 – 2023 (Meadowlark Press).  He has taught at Glendale College, where he edited Eclipse, a literary journal, and, most recently, in the MFA program at Antioch University, Los Angeles.  His work has been widely anthologized in textbooks published by City Lights Books, Etruscan Press, Fountainhead Press, Harcourt Brace, Longman, McGraw-Hill, Prentice Hall, Simon & Schuster, Thomson/Heinle, the University of Iowa Press, Wadsworth, and others. He lives in Pasadena, California.