for Dave, since I said I would choose to be a hawk . . .
It seems each time I have crossed
This old bridge it was not in leaving
From here to there but into the light
That is the river, that is always both
Arrival and departure; rising into it
On a span of gray wings, the tips
Touching each shore, lifting me into
The soaring song the feathered wires
Sing, then silence above the sounds
Of water shifting shallow stones.
This must be what the high hawk
Knows, this endless expanse of air,
The faint rush and hush of wings,
Feeling the whole earth turning and
Returning in the water and the light.
Poetry by countryfog
Read 917 times
Written on 2015-11-21 at 15:21
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