Writers often wax poetic over birds
Soaring, gliding, touching the sun,
Portending trouble, and eating their weight daily.
I’m more interested, though,
In the birds that appear to suddenly fall
From the sky without plan or purpose.
On a few occasions, I have thought a bird
Died suddenly in flight and came crashing
To earth only to see it open its wings at the last
Moment and land safely next to a worm or morsel of bread.
I’m relieved to see them touch down without so much as
A ruffled feather, and I begin to think that I may
Be just as lucky and find wind beneath my wings
At the last possible second.
Perhaps what feels like a free fall at the moment
Is my own weight carrying me to my destiny
Or some small nourishment.
