Flying with Birds
Hard stubble on bare feet.
Take off your shirt.
let sun stroke back, arms and neck,
wind lift the hair on your head.
Look at the sky,
a pattern of whites and grays
with a blue slit for a doorway,
stand and walk through.
Raucous cawing starts
and guides you to the crows.
Track the noisy flock:
black specks move in mass,
a lone hawk in their midst.
The hawk, a brown arrow,
flies on languid strong wings
in the midst of black chaos.
The lead crows dive and strike,
a dark swirl pummels and bloodies the hawk
but it’s not struck from the sky.
A murder of tired crows
lands in the trees
and the victorious hawk flies on.
Follow a scold to a leaf that is not a leaf,
but a hummingbird that orders you
to move away from the trailing Jasmine.
Your heart jumps to a whirr of wings,
she braves your presence
and sips on flowers.
You wish for a day to come soon
when one will approach
and stand on air in front of your eyes,
curious to know you.
A neighbor releases six quail.
They scurry from the cage,
scatter down the driveway,
and rush into the woods.
They seek cover in the underbrush
and call to locate each other.
The birds embrace
the risks of the freedom.
Out on their own in the wild,
no one feeds the quail,
no one puts out water.
Each time one sings her presence,
I think of foxes waiting.
Then I hear the love song echo,
a ring of confirmation,
benediction on blue and gray sky days
and moonlight to shine in dreams.