He rises, glides without a wing beat
up another curve he just invented,
bending the thin air to his purpose.
He turns his head, forever watching,
and his still standing in the airstream forces
a fine music through each flight feather.
Not that he cares. He lifts a wing tip,
shoots off to the far side of the valley,
becomes a black speck on the huge clouds
that have spent their energies
in rain shrouded lightning flashes,
and swings back again, a pendulum
suspended stringless from infinity.
Young and curious, he can’t see where
we fit into the scheme of things,
then loses interest, goes his way,
and far off, soars again,
feathered physicist investigating
each dimension of his element
with easy genius, balancing
huge forces on the tilt of a wing.
