This Flight

This flight, then, before the last.

Distance won,

centering in.



There were wild birds,

were there not? Feeding

from my fingers?



Or were they children?

This feathering is not down

bedding of ducks

wintering

on the pond, wings folded,

feeding from the fingers of my children,

their bright faces bending

toward reflection.

This feathering is for flight.

I might think this

to be that other time,

mistake the wild bird for its image,

but for pinions.

I am still a long way from home

but turning now,

banking on air,

coming in.