Flight


Wrapped around you, this is corn-silk-angel-hair comfort,
whitened windows, thin-sketched trees wintered bare,
where the sand hill cranes stare from the field as if with one eye,
one lifted foot, one wing-span shouldered,
so still so alert to look at us watching
                  they will   turn   dip    ascend   into the thin air.

Here, where we wake down-wrapped, brown-feathered,
lean forward to stare at the field as if with one eye,
one hand, one shoulder blade turning,
this flight has its beginning, watching so still
so alert to look at each other
                      we will   shift   rise   ascend   here    in mid-air.

(1996 — 11 years of flying with you,
mi amor. Happy Valentine’s Day.)

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