We fly at each other, across the human -sized streets of this ancient gathering ground, these mellow golden stone streets We are not old, but youth has flown and taken roost in leggy fledglings blushing beside us. Look at us. These bushy years, these old dilemmas rubber boot years worn low to the point between comfort and decrepitude You adapt to the holes, you step around the inconsistent love, phantom twilight deer in the green park Someone told me today of some birds that no longer understand each other’s song these birds are dying. How can that be real? Behind us in the park the girls walk, chatting then run ahead, and we lag at the edge of dark comparing fears, and hope, that constant small Wheedle every mother sings: World, love our children, and our children’s children remind them they are born for purposes mysterious as yet, but surely at least as beautiful as that bird fluttering in our well-feathered bodies, stirring memories of flight.
Photo courtesy NgHang Vu on pixabay.com