Soaring

Wondering how the gangly grace
of a heron calls to me,
I watch the feathers scratch the sky.
The lines spell a quiet redemption
but my sins are wider than this valley.
A stark yearning comes with dawn,
a deep screaming blue.
I want to watch him draw, move,
rake his mark across sunrise-
pale night fading from my skin,
light bursting through the trees
and over the water.
I think we could make the shape of grace
if we could brush wings a little as we fly.

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