A white spiral of pelicans slowly drains down
out of a pink late afternoon, settling onto a pond
far in the distance, its surface reflecting the sky
like an opening, a second sky showing through
from beneath, the prairie no more than a film
between the heaven above us and another below,
the pelicans all of one mind, gliding down,
none of them beating one wing in resistance,
before passing through to the bright other side.