So...

so--with the drifts

of birds

winging in the soft blue

just before sunrise

flashing amber on their wings

carrying it--less sharp than the fire

which blazes in the windows

so--too

my soul, drift softly

and exult, easy

with the joy of daylight, coming

so, too--you

skreel, low over the valleys

you, go--

winging. and leave

the itchy, burning

husk--stretched and cracking

to crumble

with the dust.