Skies

You told me you dreamed of a clear blue sky And to you it felt like a good sign But the sky is not the best of signs for me. I often used to watch the flight of birds Until I lost sight of them among the clouds. Once I stood on a cliff on the Oregon coast Watching seagulls flying low over waves Until they became twinkling specks Too small to see among the whitecaps, And I watched hawks turning slow circles; Pigeons whirring into skies on fire with sunset; Crows hurrying home under threatening clouds; Ducks putting muscle into a skyward climb; And larks skimming water then wheeling high; An airplane so far away it was less than a dot, The fading chord of its engine pervading the sky. The birds I watched were like my hopes, always racing ahead of me, Going into regions I could not see Abandoning my body to gravity, while I watched with my aspiring eyes, my sad eyes, my left-behind eyes. But you kept your hopes with you and took flight into many skies: Into the skies of song, of long distance running, Of the inner sky that is opened by the breath. I can hold you in my arms, but I cannot go along. I can only stay near and feel glad for your freedom, As I feel freed by watching a bird in flight.