I cannot talk of birds that fly,
Against a gray and leaden sky,
Their wing tips rippling to and fro,
Wonder.....wonder....where they go,
In formation, like a plane,
Each bird desires to play a game,
Look again, one fell behind,
Trailing off as if he's blind,
Like specks of pepper, all the rest,
Fly on ahead to gain their quest,
Oh God, my God, where are you?
When birds fly high, of many hue?
Do You guide them as they move?
Intent they are their need to prove,
That freedom felt against the wind,
Accents to us the feeling pinned,
So tight to life we all will bond,
To a phantom world far beyond,
Oh to be a bird so free,
And fly with God for all to see.