flown

we've flown
we are one bird, I don't
know who is beak, or eye,
or wing, but we

wing over effortless
the hills, the cliffs,
the sand, the sea

a fixed-wing craft
we soar down drafts
and circle, spiral up
again, with preternatural sense
or rather: natural sense,
of where and when

the currents bend
so that we'll catch
our wingtips grasp
like fingers, made
of thousands of ethereal fans
that take thin air like ladder rungs
with firm hands splayed
upon sound wood
so feathered filaments take hold
and draw us up, as sure as steps
but quickly, though

this air is cold