By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 9/5/08

After another restless night, at our preoccupied
Approach, suddenly, a score of songbirds scatters,
Like ascending, living confetti, returning to an apex
Of greens and blues, their flurries of twitterings
Chiming together, then splitting apart, each note
Carrying one of the many thorns whose sharpness
Galls us. For a moment, weightless, the ruins
Fall away in the rapidly receding distance,
As far below, the undulations of the surface
Reveal larger and larger vistas of earth and sea,
All the needling fragments reassembling into
Something cohesive and luminous,
Something indomitably living, who contains
In her being both flight and singing, plus
That indefinable quality of light that always
Effaces ruins. She is the angel who speaks
In the water’s voice, in the scattering clatter
Of hurried feathered pinions, in the sigh
Released from the hovel of the body,
To mate with the wind and dally with the leaves.
And how high she makes us feel, free in the depths
Of her soundings: how high, how whole, how strong!

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