Three little birds disappeared into blue morning.
A vast room to be free.
Others try sorties, their gliding arms
A reach too far.
Flying for the sake of it.
Not for crumbs thrown on ground.
There is a time for hunger, but now is a time for flight.
So I am writing this, with nothing in mind
But to learn the art of the art
Where lines skip, jump and sometimes fly
Then land smoothly on the page
Or huddle by a shelter, on a wintry morning.
Let other birds cackle and screech
About lack of speed, this and that.
I saw three birds fly into morning.
They didn’t ask for anything.