Inert at my wheel
straining upwards,
my solitary trajectory braked,
I am such a lumpish thing.

It’s all happening up there
in a mackerel-shine —
the crackling synapses
of a thousand bird-brains

opening up the dawn,
sieving the half-light,
in a shivering drift

embossing a tree in black,
every branch starling’d.

Sue Proffitt