Taking Flight

Hurled against the world’s pull,
it takes two days to fly;
but going home
we arrow to our nest
with the certainty of homing pigeons.
 
 
Both flights last not long enough
to shake the soil from eyes
that ever yearn
for a country of cloud
and sky as ocean.
Outer boundary expanding the inner;
 
I only know this fragility
from the air.
I dream, sometimes, of the edge
where the blue sky turns black
and gravity’s jesses are loosed
to let our frail hawks
fly free.
 
Out in the front yard
the whippoorwill’s chick
watches the wind threaten the trees
from the safety of the nest.
Tomorrow may be good for taking flight.