I was walking the other day, feeling the wind chill go straight to my bone.

I saw birds up above, flying overhead — over buildings and trees and Old Main. I thought about how no matter what tragedies plague the world, like the shooting that happened in State College two weeks ago, or the violence taking place every day in neighborhoods, cities, states, and countries... no matter what happens, there are still birds flying in the sky.

There's still something rising, looking over the world...and flying.

That's pretty powerful.

So, I wrote a poem.

Rising

As sweet as a blue jay,

But the wing was all ripped

And the fire burned through

All the blue

Until the ashes all dripped

And the jays fought the falcons

Their beaks bleeding red

And the feathers were ruffled

Chirps muffled

The birds were all dead

But they're rising

They're rising!

For they're no longer hiding

Yes.

It's better to fight

And die in the open

Than fall in the dark,

And lay quiet, lay broken

That's what they said—

Will continue to say—

Until blue jays, blue wings

Are crowned tireless kings

Once again.