This damp, drizzly morning
I saw a wing of a butterfly —
gentle, little… blue and sprinkled.
I felt a whiff of zephyr —
light, fragrant… undulating.
None can fly close to the cloudy Sky.
Suspicious Sun yearns for the empyrean,
raising its head and grinning towards a
The prickle of a green hornet seems terrifying,
It buzzes around, hums, breathes deeply and wonders
why won’t I get out of Its way.
But It cannot reach the topmost needle of a conifer.
Brisk eve hints of rime.
A little finch is sleeping on a stump;
I approach steadily.
The horn doesn’t frighten It,
neither does my black stare.
Ash and autumn cover that small body;
the wings carry It to the spring and back —
unable to gain height.
I became a birdwatcher today:
magical crow, wise and beaky raven,
surplus magpie, sparrow-hawk ready to hunt,
euphonious nightingale, humorous mockingbird,
friendly sparrow, a powerful wren…
At nightfall the Moon is white.
I’m welcoming it and pondering still:
Who’s Wings lead to the Pastures of the Universe?