INTO THE WEST

Each day near dusk I see them flying into
  the west, a flock of birds of six or eight
  that individually peel off and make
  sweeping circles, but always return to the
  tight V-formation. Silhouetted against
  the dying light, their moving wings become
  more indistinct until all I can see
  are dots of dark, and then they’re gone. I’d like
  to know where they fly and why. Beyond the hills
  is sea. There is no place to rest. Not even
  the swiftest bird can keep pace with the sun.
  One day, and soon, I’ll go out on a boat
  alone and sail into that dark and see.