Poem XII

Rufus

Past isles of time

The crow flies

Floating,

    Falling,

Gliding,

    Through the open canals.

Through and through,

The crow is filled.

It can fly,

But that's not what it did.

It fell.

It spun.

It ran...

It died.

It was sent into a million,

Small,

Worthless pieces.

Past annals of space,

The lark flies,

Slipping,

    Whispering,

Gasping,

    Yearning for air.

Back and back,

The lark is spotted.

It can fly,

But it was mistaken.

It found.

It searched.

It rushed...

It dreaded.

It gave new life to the crow,

But only

For a moment.

Through all of this,

The mynah makes its move.

Thinking,

Stalling,

Rewinding,

Hiding in clear view.

Here and back,

The mynah's made a fool.

It can fly,

But it won't.

It endured.

It suffered.

It wrote.

It gave up.

It embarked with the lark,

Only

To free herself.