Light III

III.

We are hatch-lings
Our feathers are moist
We preen about the nest
And play with this game of molting
Our down is soft and blue
We are new birds, born to
A new life, our wings are
Not wings of height
They are subterranean
They nestle in the earth
They burrow with the roots
Of heat, the great force below the
Crust, that thumps like a great heart.
We are not birds that fly
Ours is the incendiary path
We burn and burn, our trajectory
Is ash, older than any creature
Of the earth, we missed the
Turn of eons, to live in this
Stub of candle, to fly with
The grease of the tallow
To be watched by the eyes of
The watchers,
From their perches,
Dangling high in lustrous trees