A Year of Poems – Day 309

When birds fly from A to B
They don’t follow geometry.
The shortest path may be a line
And in the rush of time we follow that
But they fly in swirls and flap five times
When I think they’d glide in straight.
Perhaps there is no lesson here.
Their brains are smaller than my fist,
But if with little mental might
They plot a wandering path of curves
Then in our rush to be most right
There’s something obvious we may have missed.


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