Honk, honk, honk: we are flying solo,
pumping hard, hoping for the winds to change,
working endlessly. Our wings are battered,
beaten by the battle with gravity.
But still, we find enough energy to call,
honk, honk, honk: hear me shout,
hear me seek you out, you solo flyers!
Let’s boomerang, this wide world over,
following the sun and the currents and the
honk, honk, honks of whoever is at the head
of our formation. Flump down when our
winds are gone or we’re just too tired. And
then clomp, clump, slump, pump, pump, pump until
we rise again–out of grace,
but not yet out of time.