Current Issue About Editorial Note Archives Submitting Links		Nicholas Messenger Flying in Snow What are those white birds doing, circling in the snow ? Do they suppose that nobody can see them ? I think often of the fish as being very far below not-utterly-dark bubbles; chasing after little bits of radiance, the fractions of identity from their obliterating medium. The birds above our heads are also dashing back and forwards as if trying to capture something of great salience; and slowly turning whiter, more like ice, more incandescent; for oblivion consumes them wheeling heavenwards like snowflakes when they settle on the surface of the sea that take a little while to vanish. And we hear from their ascent shrill exclamations, either of dismay, or rising ecstasy. Next Poem
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