A bird starts–at a window
where you are;
vines in mid-climb,
a spiral further
up the wires.
At sea level,
the only story
is transitory–
white ibis in the grass,
or another,
little blue heron
in the leaves.
What gives
way is everything–
and whatever
keeps you,
stories up
above the street–
is a certain kind
of weightlessness,
like you weren’t even here.
Water rises,
and the wind
blows through the clouds.
We are separate–you and me–
a spate of swallow-tails,
suddenly here and there–
unseen and innate,
on a flight path out to sea.
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