Taking Flight
Each night at six the man opens the small doors of cages for pigeons
to flutter out into sun-painted skies. One
by one they reel off their perch, strike their wings
into beating, collect in clouds sweeping together
sculpting skyways
banked for rising and falling, slicing light
white to silver
grey to silver
Each night I pedal my bike, watch
the birds not the road. I want to be one of them
rustling up eddies to cross and
crisscross, until the sky is tangled in currents
so next when we plunge through we stop sailing
together but, like coins skytossed in reckless abandon
we jangle and muddle our pretty precision. I wonder
why night after night they forfeit their freedom
return to their cages, settle softly in darkness
muffle longing in attics for what they gave up.
Would I?
Or you, if given the chance (if the wax didn't melt)
work waived, obligations cancelled - we've quite done
enough - would we return to our cages each night
coo each other to sleep dreaming
of flight?
- Ann Goldring "The Pigeon, Icarus"
Found amongst various files while sorting and packing.
So here I am. Taking flight for a few months anyhow.
Before I return, settle softly in a new cage, and search for something for which I will be more happy to forfeit my freedom. Or part of it.