Birds register the movement of tides
and the stenography of words
They swap seasons like they swap languages
and undulate over the wheat fields’ swaying sands
They emerge from inner comas
and announce a ripe orthography
between the lines of continents
copied in erasable ink
They have an accidental calligraphy at the seafront
and a nasal way of saying
my foot, my mother, my bread
They write letters with a farewell accent,
a question mark on the journey’s prospect