What Can It Mean to Dance If We Don’t Mean to Dance?

I’ve never seen small birds look
So much like a cloud of gnats,
Not as light winds live or die.

They zig-zag, a black-speck cloud,
Not quite like a flock should look—
More like a dance. I like them.

They don’t know I’m here. The blue
Egg of a thin-shelled fall sky
Does not know they’re here. Who knows

What might know we’re here, out there?
Do we need to feel we’re watched,
We’re known? Let’s just watch. Let’s go.