Scribo Scribere

At my desk I sit, and I stare –

the wings of birds so idoneus,

as they flit through the air,

curling and curveting, light and thin,

resting gently on a feeder

outside the window of my room,

no bigger than half my palm:

I could hold them and feel no weight.

Watching them, out is in.

There is nothing between us,

no glass, no space, no air;

those wings, as they course

from the feeder up, up in the sky,

are my own wings, myself,

lifting me high above the things

that are my life, the daily routine,

the in-and-out and constant motion.

And I am with them. I fly away.

As I am one of them,

I both admire and am beauty:

my lightness, fast my form,

soaring, sweeping, seeking on high

the glory feeling of being

no larger than half a palm.

I range from tree to tree

and there alight, weightless as I am,

looking out on vistas bare and bright,

lissome and free, and living

as I curl and curvet

through fulsome air, lighter far

than anything Man can conceive:

I am – those little birds –

flocking outside my window –

flecks of beak and wing

so glorious in the bounty of nature.