Migration

Two swans, long of neck, white feathered,
a male and a female,
their maiden voyage yet to be complete,
the air steadily rising on a warm swell,
rise along those molecules,
the curve carries them smoothly.
Crimson fire from the horizon as the celestial traveler
toes the line between earth and sky,
bathes the birds as they pave a path for each other
the dictates of symmetry require, the vibration
of a string drawn between them the tool for flying far.
In one breath, the wings flap together, disturb equally
the air steadily rising--what do they flee from?
Their lands made arid, perhaps, the reason, or
they tore the atmosphere in such hope as
to cleave open their abdomens for one another,
a cavern sharply reflective to lie in
among the mirrors each in turn had swallowed;
open their mouths wide enough to consume
the sunset and keep it forever, the largest rock
in their gizzards, eyes wide with acquisition,
swift the wing flap cleaves air again and again.
Burn, the two birds sing, burn brightly asunder,
ring around again, the wings lacerate air softly yielding,
the energy, oh robustly moving itself, hot in seeking
the largest mirror's edge,

as it draws ever further away.