pause and thereby mute the
howling frenzy of its engine,
freeze the rushing motion till
there was nothing but the measured
rush of my breathing, and muffled
crush of my heart, I would float
below the birds, their watchful eyes
turned unseeing spheres, and caress
the feathered contrails of their flights,
crisscrossing through the lake of sky,
from bodies strewn like random ink blots
on an azure sheet of paper embossed
with zinc-white clouds.
I would take a leisurely eternity
to study a single pinion from
the quilted covers lifting high
their fragile, hollow frames.
I’d place it in your hand and whisper
its entire story while you non-existed
in that void of quantum chaos spanning
moments. And when I reset the world to
play, you’d spy it and wonder
why you held a feather and why,
suddenly, you yearned to fly.