Once you were parallel
To a bird’s flighted path:
I don't know the shuffle
Of wings, or strapping of greed,
For shrinking minds pulsed
The eyes, as swooping
Became your joys - rejoice!
Whisking your way
through the air, more
accustomed to this phenomenon
than the birds of martyrdom,
You enjoy a brief game of flight
and then sit in a nest of twigs.
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