A day for flying chases a cold fall night.
Creak jaw of winter, gaping in the honey tailwinds.
 
Flight path of the songbird,
oak and juniper tree.
 
Sleep thrums the leaves
while the kestrel pursues.
 
She sings no return ticket.
She sings only a matter of time.
 
Still, magnet of the gut
pulls south.
 
With luck, there will be chances left
for sex and hunting.
 
For one more flight, your belly
roaring over swamp water,
 
your wings,
churning with such mysteries:
 
machinery
of
sky.