Swerve deborah jang Looking up, I now see sky, how it tried to warn us Fall’s early chill, its hard snowfall suppressing unsuspecting branches — That nasty-breathed wind all gossipy and proud for no apparent reason — 16 Those goppish gaggles, not so grand, squabbling south and fast across the borderland — Scientists say a flock knows when to swerve and where to sway by correlative agreement of one member with its seven closest neighbors, and them to theirs, and so on. (A drama of swarm) Exponential wholeness, then, rises wingtip to wingtip stirring up the light. Had we all been sleeping? Were we collectively unwise? Will hate extinguish every star? Can we rewrite the skies?