GERMS & MARBLED MURRELETS
Sometimes the sky's comin' at me
Sometimes it's too far away.
There is a razor-edged flapping too fine and distant to percieve,
through those blues and gossamers,
and threads of silk too fine and distant to percieve.
While I lie aching for lungs that
will fill and flatten gently,
I stare through six eyes
of window and spectacle.
I'm imagining those secret birds
their wings too fast to follow
I'm imagining I hike their paths of air.
Only the best of scientists can go
to those places they would write about.
© Darcy Stumbaugh, January 20, 2002
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