i watch the birds,
the sparrows and the towhees and the woodpeckers and the
high above in the oaks and pines and cedars,
flitting, effortlessly, from branch to branch,
on paper wings and wire legs.
flight is more than hollow bones,
more than feathers and wings.
it is a joyous lightness of being,
it is in the green of the budding leaf,
the first, violent breath of the newborn fawn,
and in every fiery beat of the heart longing for the nearness of
a joyous bird-lightness soaring within on a thousand, feathery