Minutes

Some days
at the office
the birds
that move in the view
outside the window
manage to press
themselves into
a certain minute
with enough force
to fold it in
upon itself

and their wings
are the same wings
that belonged to birds
long dead
that pressed
themselves into
the other side
of the same minute
years ago
on some shore,
or above some clearing.

What I'd give
to stack those
minutes
into an age,
and remain in it.