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| photo by Shaun Wilkinson via Shutterstock |
birds take to preen perching
songs beaked, cutting into the wake of day
they're flesh seed magnetic crumbs
of darling starlight
fallen to dust
as we all must
one day it seems
though time erodes
our sense of permanence
our sense of willful obstruction
to its endless march, its endless hunger of our bones
and our intentions to outlast how far time goes
time knows, it will indeed bleed from us
the last ounce of our humanity
and this, poem says
is music
to our ears
birds are sundry shooting stars
with their hollow reed fingered souls
tolling the ley lines
we find them harbinger and omen
and we pray their passages
to mark ourselves
bowsprit knives
with many lives
purified by tides
and this odd sense
of knowing
how, to dance
here and now
on this ride
EJR ©
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