Tree of Many Feathers:

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12/27/14

.   .   .

Flight as easy as you or I might make and unmake a fist.

If there was a reflection of the underside of its wings,
A ripple upon the waters,
A longer story of unfurling or empty talons or the love of air—
It remains untold.
One slow turn above the still lake—
Water black as old liver,
glazed with copper, mercury, and the last sunlight,
Quiet as glass.

The bird, its many feathers,
Wings arching and leveling,
Recedes into ribbons of gray.

A drowsing line of bracken
And forest
At lake’s edge;
Trees stickling upward, into, through,
Skies of dying light,
And jet streak.