When I was younger, I always
would look
up and imagine—what
it would
feel like—to swoop
brawny and
broad winged and darkly
confident
wheels through empty
blue space,
with perfect faith
in the invisible gusts
of midwestern wind—so
fulsome they're practically
solid with the vitalizing musk
of sweet forest trees—
gliding there in silence
for as long as I wished. But
now that I'm pretty much
all grown up,
I more often look up
and wonder
whether or not
any majestic old hawks
ever fall
asleep at night
and dream
of deelevating down here
to earth, walking and
shoving into some overly
warm little car
with a shirt
and tie on—and, very slowly,
going to work.
