This grace, this tender beauty
is just an illusion cast from feathers
I thieved hungrily from a fallen swan.
I'd fly straight to the sun in my robber’s mask
but for the ominously softening wax
holding my air-bound pristine white appendages on.
Instead, I go north,
I go north, to the cooler air
chasing the slip-stream trail of the proudly honking birds.
Look up next morning
and you may see their sweet formation
then me, a crude mimic clad all black and white
flapping coarsely after.
April 30, 2009