Have you ever seen the leading edge of a vulture’s wing?
Really seen it?
Breathed the exhilaration of it?
This deep brown edged, two-toned foil—
A mahogany knife teetering gracefully through the sky.
Sometimes the bird seems to rush
over you, or through you.
Which is strange for a creature with so somber a duty.
Though the line between tragedy and triumph
is surely porous,
and the victory of the bird in flight
is a collection of hundreds,
of stinging defeats and tragedies.
And yet, still sweet.
What, then, is there to be afraid of?
“Late Summer Revelation”
A late summer evening is the perfect time for a revelation.
When the birds’ migration shows us once again—
with spring’s euphoric memory fading—
that anything is possible;
That we live within a miracle.
Here, up in the tree.
There, by the shallow stream.
This evening a new and glorious vision unfurled.
High in the sky a line of nighthawks,
light and agile,
with mystic and snappy wingbeats,
streamed over me.
Late summer is a feeling,
maybe not so different from that
which pushes them on.
Of slow endings,