On the shadowed edge
of the causeway’s secluded tunnel,
I see blurry streaks
of bespeckled light.

Nothing is certain here –
not a breath of wind in sight –
only the feeling of movement;
of something tender and bright.

The tunnel’s inner funnel hums
and flutters with a quiet fire.
Suddenly, spirited birds erupt –
wings sparkling, sprightly flyers.

Then, ceremoniously,
they luminously journey toward
the renaissance of the golden sun.

Editor: Erynn Crittenden