There are birds rolling in the sky.

There are birds rolling in the sky.

In the slabs of grey and the pushes of black, they tumble between the clouds

Upended, righted , flung and fierce, they ride the blocks of wind,

Solid in their opposition and then cartwheeling as they fall delighting in the dizzying nothingness of clear air.

The shutters bang, house groans.

March blows through every crack .

Willow leaf buds lie flat as fish scales along wet straight wands,

And as I watch, they peal back almost imperceptibly,

leaves waiting to shake free:

When the storm has passed,

And the high tumbling birds can turn

and land.

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