
while these aging birds
sit fat and full in familiar branches
accustomed to circadian rhythms
the urging of hunger
and the stealthy creep of stalking cats
you soar across the fragrant meadow
dipping down to the singing river
touching lightly
then rising up across lavender mountains
to the lure of yet to be
in a day, a week, or
usually by nightfall
you return sleepy, sated
bearing luminous silks and savory spices
adventures aglow
with possibility
- pb © february 2012 -