the birds sifting through
the clouds
there is no chance
of rain
only sun
and the rarefaction of
wings against
molecules
ah
the simple things
when the morning is quiet
and I see
an imagined crane
perched on a branch
in the lake
we used to walk
around
the benches we used to
sit on
the black mist
that sometimes sits
around our
feet like a dog
we are not maquettes
but sculpted
made of marble
the stone birds sailing
overhead
the toy boats
the water
the lack of tears
and the machinery it takes
for me to say
*fly, fear. fly.
bring home my birdie.