Thursday, February 21, 2013

Winged - a poem

Feel the rising air
stiff against your feathers,
as you drop into earthly space,
adapted muscles pull up, thrust down,
three dimensional volumes to soar in,
to bank into and cavort with,
to scope prey from,
then plummet towards and seize upon,
conferring death for ready food,
the eternal exchange for existence.

Adrift on changing winds,
changing landscapes,
use the loft and take rest,
if migratory, you must,
searching for beacons and marsh. 
Every entity designed for flight,
hollow bones, hollow feathers,
but warm blood,
and a heart that soars
in the wind.

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