Flock

“Come every winter the flock flies,
Every feather the same colour, everyone matching speed, every wing flap synchronised,
No guilt accompanies the kite who breaks rank from the flock,
To give itself the desired view and a warmer dock
To soar across the Mediterranean till its wings grow sore;
Its own nest, its own route it will explore,
On realising the relative definitions of infinity,
Is when he will begin to use his inimitability.”