White Birds

A flock of birds white above my head,

Always in another direction they head.

From where I go,

sometimes aside, or directly to.

Always away,

they never stay.

But what do I want then to do?

to stand still above me?

That cannot be true!

Last night there were four,

but other times it's been more.

Did I say they are white?

that color of the soul that surpasses the sublime?

Stop—

I don't think they are white, 

I think it's the night that's dark.