There is strength
in the spines of birds.
It seems so clear
in retrospect. Wings
taking in the air, so
capture! release!
Oily eyes, so small
we hardly ever see,
they are so connected
to spaces between a breeze.
Is the attraction to fire,
the lust of the burn,
the freedom of form
that which holds me midair?
I am wingless in this life,
Hawk-friend overhead
scouting the void.
Ultimately, we are what we want.
I am the burning
during which cooling embers
lift
off the coals,
hot and grounded.
I am the dancer
on the wings of the night
stirring without reason.
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