A flock of Parisian geese,
(All silver, All blues in rain.
The pavement soaked and soggy,
The trees distant and aloof),
That slowed together and sat,
Heads bending lowly in empathy.
The air is fresh but bitter,
And everything is steel and sleek.
There is smoke in my eyes and no one else's.
There are killers in the flock, terrors in the pack.
There are natural born, mechanically made, men,
And though united we feel, divided we stand.
We wait for the signal, stopped.
And lift off together still in formation.
Equidistant, sympathetic, identical.
And when it all is over we shall revert.
