Migratory

There are birds that fly over, which feels significant. The sky at twilight isn't poisoned the way the word is, but instead is yellow, orange, yellow-orange, vespering.

See, birds flying over gives this place a feeling of openness, of belonging. Not belonging, but not alone either. The horizon seems to suggest that there's a place from which birds might come, a place that they might go. I came through here on a train, once. I knew I would return. I didn't know that reflecting ponds of water in a recently graded construction sight would lead me to spontaneously salute the not-yet-yellow sky.