Again, black birds swirl
above the steep walls of the prison.
Hundreds lift, circle and stream
away toward the countryside.
I cannot find a leader, yet they are led.
To know, they meet again and again,
they pass in turns and speak in shapes.
I am driving to night work
along the gray road of the kingdom.
Hundreds of us roll and dream
that outside is better than inside.
I turn the dials in my head,
to find direction; They but lend
formless routes I cannot take.
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