Maybe it’s middle age,
all the talk of joints
and life insurance, but
my envy has shifted
from the lovely
polished humans-
whatever it was that
once looked like success,
that tenuous beauty-
to the preposterous
hornbill, the beige
and ruffled mousebird,
all those flying things
with their sharp purpose,
those magnificent wings.
I dream of decomposing,
feeding my tired skin to
an earthworm, just
for the final hope of being
swallowed by a bird,
of joining the swooping
confederacy, the hope
of all that air
lifting me.
Lovely ?
As always, this poem elicited an audible WOW from me at the end.”Swooping confederacy”–mmm!