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Out of doors, the whole world's
like a songbird, radantly alive,
getting ready to soar aloft,
till I turn and walk
down the stairs
to the asphalt carport.
How dim
is that black substance,
how dully my heart
reflects back from it,
but I cease reflecting
as above a great bird,
wings of perfect symmetry outspread,
glides in arcs drawn
by a compass in the Hand of God.
He spirals like a paper airplane,
alighting high in a gum-oak tree,
yielding the sky to his mate
who appears, circles,
and disappears
into the same tree.
Max Reif
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