19 February 2017

Postcard 83

It will be a time of birds. 
Light, hollow-boned, meager flight. 
This is bird weather -- the wind the rain. 
Shuddering off beaded dew, first risers of morning light. 
Strength of heart, strength of cabled tendon and sinew, strength of breast.
Heartbeat fluttering against frost of night. 

It will be a time of birds. 
 The flock, in air, moves in more dimensions. 
Each rise and turn and fall a thousand small arcs scribed.
Each flash of light, like turning scales, a thousand breasts bared. 
Each flock is writing etched in sky. 

It will be a time of birds.
Unwithered but fluttered and singing with clear and clever joy and fun.
Be everywhere at home, move upon axes strange and unknown. 
Take flight and be your own arc scribed decisive within decisive flock
Thrust forward your quick-beating heart. 

Do not take comfort. 
Do not relax. 
Do not be impervious. 
Do not withstand attacks. 

Strength of keen eyes and first awake. 
Strength of limbs that cannot help but tendon-bend to work at hand: 
persistence in loud defying dumb laws of gravity. 

It will be a time of birds. 
Live a meager hollow-boned life.
 Be light, sing out and free. 
The only thing straight is dive. 
Take flight! Master of whirl.

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