What a magnificent flight,
she thought,
watching him wheel
ahead of the gathering storm.
Does he tremble inside too,
she wondered,
with the possibility
of not making it across in time?

Could he carry my words,
she hoped,
singing along with his tune
over mountains far away?
What long days,
she thought,
gone too soon
leaving her clutching just a feather.

Stop tasting that color for a minute
and listen- really listen.

Have you ever deciphered the rustling
of pine cones as they open their scales
and bellow true magic into the forest?
I think they’re teaching us
a language we’d be better off using-
without guards and with fewer adjectives.
Associative yet transient, we see
sugars below the canopies of conifers.

(If you let them linger on the tongue, these bumpy ideas will smoothly float like pollen, irritating but ultimately filling your garden.)

The problem, of course,
with returning from a wild place
is your feet can never seem to re-find purchase.
Like a newborn hoofed beast,
you end up splayed and on your face,
which is better anyway,
because it is heartbreaking
to keep looking up
and only catch a glimpse
of real light amid false bulbs
instead of the giant sky-bowl
you once drank from.
When down as low as the earth,
at least you can dream of up.

Soon, we will be like used matchsticks.
Used and falling apart at a touch.

We combust when in the same breath,
faint sparks of heat lightning
in a turbulent night sky.

Soon, we will share sleep.
Dreaming and living us,
in both places.