I see the birds. They fly
over me.
I am one. I am a bird. But I am not a bird.
I do not swoop down from the sky.
I ease myself down.
I do not wake others by my screeching, tweeting, chirping.
I rise before the sun, but enjoy the
silence before the rage of the warmth is felt,
when I can hear the dew off the grass crackle from early evaporation.
I do not balance well when I fly.
I dip and swirl and veer and steer.
I am a bird. But I am not a bird.
I spread my wings,
my water colored by the rain and the evaporated dew the sun took away
before either was awake wings.
I spread my wings
and I feel the air rush over them, under them, through them,
distributing my colors until they bleed into each other.
They wash over me until I am looking at myself asking,
“Am I a bird?”
over me.
I am one. I am a bird. But I am not a bird.
I do not swoop down from the sky.
I ease myself down.
I do not wake others by my screeching, tweeting, chirping.
I rise before the sun, but enjoy the
silence before the rage of the warmth is felt,
when I can hear the dew off the grass crackle from early evaporation.
I do not balance well when I fly.
I dip and swirl and veer and steer.
I am a bird. But I am not a bird.
I spread my wings,
my water colored by the rain and the evaporated dew the sun took away
before either was awake wings.
I spread my wings
and I feel the air rush over them, under them, through them,
distributing my colors until they bleed into each other.
They wash over me until I am looking at myself asking,
“Am I a bird?”