There’s a bird singing in a tree behind me.
The third plane to go by in as many minutes
has just passed overhead—suspended against the vast blue.
Actually, as I look up and around,
there are six planes visible,
though only two or three are audible.
A little girl and her dad have just launched a kite.
Here comes another plane—and another kite.
Then there were three—kites.
The second one was shaped like a bird.
We had two frisbees
and for one quiet moment
a bird lazily paralleled a frisbee before lilting off.
Birds in flight are like music—
improvised on the … well, on the fly—
gliding through long-held notes,
then gracefully dropping several octaves
effortlessly transposing their ethereal melody—
a hawk in crescendo,
an arpeggio of swallows,
the beat of wings—
rich harmony to the song of the day.
I wish I could modulate myself into flight
the bird’s kind—free.
But I wonder if birds flying by
ever look down
and regret their wings
in a small bird wish
to be able to dance like me?