FLIGHT

When I reach the top of this mountain

I will rest, suck in the thin air.

When I reach the top of this mountain,

I shall know with cold certainty

that I won’t come this way again.

When I reach the top of this mountain

I’ll look down and beyond,

turn a full circle

from sunrise to nightfall and back again.

Hear the chainsaws slash,

Hear bulldozers tear. 

Watch smoke rise, the cattle moving in.

See cities bulge with driveways,

malls and shanty towns.

See haze hang

over the concrete and corrugated iron.

The earth in a single revolution,

when I reach the top of this mountain.

Name fifty things that fall from the sky,

they said.

I began with bombs

and finished at feathers.

On top of this mountain

wind ruffles the plumage;

I tuck stray primaries in place

and unfold my wings,

ready for launching.

Ready to soar

above this barren peak,

in search of a safe distance.

Ready to sacrifice position

for momentum.

I can hear turbulence rising;

they say that sand is running out.

If this is true,

I may never land.

vii. 2019