Never Dreams Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Little birds, wounded ones:
Hung up on the trees, under suns-
Laughed with echoes from the mines,
From the throats of mountains
Freckled by wildflowers:
The mountain lions run, chase the snowmelt
Like lovers-
They go down until there is no fear,
Where they have no brothers, but are met upon
By eyes who cannot see, who have never
Seen, and who are blinded:
And through those they leap, vanishing,
And carrying on- down roads that move not a single
Step, upon the lips breathing of the open throat
That through all of its sleep never dreams.