I wonder that the ticks
in the plumage of a soaring bird
embedded in the skin;
clinging and huddled,
know they soar;
do they
watch the sun, or
see the momentary countryside
in a plummeting moment;
Does the tick know fog
in the misty moments
are clouds?

I want to soar, and look out
where the winds are too strong to die
and dreams too vivid for waking;
sunbeams unblinking in their hot brilliant shine
like a coin
to a child.
air savory with the taste of memories;
draining from
the plains, and the sky
like the colours from the falling leaf

together at once
learning and forgetting with a restful sigh,
that simply being born doesn’t mean you’re alive.