Small birds heard a bird overhead
in the sky,
saying, “I am the sky,
fly to me,”
so they flew for a while.
When the birds looked up higher
they decided
to be alone with the sky,
to be with those who soar, alone
with the sky.

The wind in the leaves
shivered cold with the question
of why a tiny bird would care to strive
with the sky,
even for a while.

The water laughed
as rain and rivers soared together,
to fall
deeper, further down, into the earth
and its gravity.

Nesting in the branches by night,
birds watched the stars flying
without minds, thrown by fire,
desired by the cause of the cause
of the flight of the fire,

and feathered,
in the morning,
they desired to fly again.
To fly because of hunger, endless yearning,
and the joy of the sky.

Feathers highlighted with colours
that the eye was born to see,
primary colours born to open,
like seeds in the soil.
Wings contoured with space
inside and out.

When you see them,
see the sky,
and see beyond
its pillars; see inside
the daylight.


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