Cloak

                        i.m. Margaret Gimblett

A bough bends, and in

the distance a cloak of

black birds sings and

clings to a bare tree.

We are moving together;

there’s one cloud of us

huddled around a light.

The birds move to another

branch, the cloud breaks,

shakes into raindrops.

But the sky will hold

us loosely and proud.