Sunday, January 13, 2008


when falcons soar in their domain,
above the branches’ leaves,
they sometimes meet (and brush)
with some white pearly, ceiling-soft

afraid of what’s not understood,
some will drop and stay below—
to the safety of the lake.
there are fishes here, and water too,
and things quite-good for birds;
a very pleasant and a most
solidly constructed nest may find a
home in these well-fed trunks,
to ease the wearied wings and

but—there are also others,
a courageous few,
who will venture
through, beyond, above
the cloudy lofts—unseeing,
filled with whitest sky-foam,
she then breaks
the frail-sweet atmosphere
and (finding flight in falling)
beholds the face of the Sun.

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