The Art of Flight
What wings accumulate is not air
but space, an exemplar
of restraint defied. I listen
and hear feathers
ruffling in the shadows,
a vibration that swells
until it becomes flight or
regret, the retrieval of our
bodies from this dream of ascent.
The art of flight is one of
disturbance, of angles and lift
and touching what can’t be seen.
What we hold carries no meaning.
The beauty lies in the gathering.
I wrote this piece in the mid-80s, and posted it here in 2015. I’d forgotten about it, until I found the original moldering in a box of old papers. It’s okay, for an artifact from another life…