1 minute reading time (139 words)

Fledgling wings in summer

There was the bird that flew because its wings were young,

For it knew it could fly, no matter if its young wings were untried-

Fledgling wings of violet-blue, deep, deep wings

that flew against the waves, flew against the sky

and knew there was nothing to it,

Nothing new, to that old sensation of flight when

they all flew,

some new

some old

some battered birds, which had know their season, too

and knew that this was all that there was to it,

and nothing else-

To fly, against some sky dyed blue,

stretching and gliding and knowing

this was all;

Fly, while one still could;

Fly, before winter froze their wings

and chafed their hearts with longing

for some seasons of flight,

if ever they came,

if ever they would.



From the collection ‘A Sad Piper’ 1994

The hills of home
The Quetzal in my dreams

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