Poetry

The mind is brushed by sparrow wings.
                                 Hart Crane
 
All shadows of a kind                       cross the atlas of the mind.
Alone or with fledglings                  in realistic settings 
The ghosts of those birds                           migrated into words. 
The longer we stayed                         the sound of a glade.
Windows doubled as skies                  for eternity in their eyes.
Even for a feather                                   it is a heavy tether.
In each nest                                            eggs  at rest.
Such stillness grows                               like flight in repose
Mounted there                                          in flying air.
What is seeming                                       if nature is dreaming?
What is death                                           to a hummingbird’s breath?
In an eagle’s gaze                                soar endless days.
A glass case sings                                     it breaks with wings.
All field marks fade                              light goes into shade.