In the air
As well as on the grass?
The attraction of grain or seed,
Abundance and the need.
But there is no apparent reason
Why they flock
Above these fields the entire season.
Like a school of tiny fish they boil
And pitch, dive
And tack, black ink in oil.
They have no leader and no
But seem to know when and where to go.
Perhaps it is a matter of duty,
Each to the others.
I prefer to think the point is beauty.
Then one day they are gone.
You hardly notice
When they return, one by one by one.