Do all birds fly so suddenly so?
Has the prowess of my wingspan
imposed too much?
For that is an escaped motive
and is only what I am.

I seldom call
Yet when I do
I sing
with intent to soar
until my pitch conducts the winds
Bestowing me the cream
of all flocks.

And yet these skies
though far from vacant
are populated more by clouds
than by those who would requite me.

Too many feathers
broken and chipped
While my
presumably unbeknownst competitors
assume roles beyond me.

And here I reside
Biding for that right hour
of that right season.