A Dream Of Birds

In a dream,

there are

navy blue flecks

upon a pale

blue sky,

moving as if blown

by wind.

The dreamer 

ascends;

wings appear 

and flap

from time

to time

lifting what are 

now clearly birds 

from their nearly

weightless 

falling.

Their movements

are neither

random nor

directed.  They

are not commuting

nor are they still;

they have no

place to go, no place 

to be.

Ascending further, 

among them now, 

the view

is panoramic

and the height  

disorienting 

as the ground swirls

far down

below.

There are houses

the size of pebbles

one throws into 

a stream from

a stony bank;

trees smaller; a road

snaking, dark through

green and 

amber.

Through the

blue specks

becoming birds,

being among them,

looking through their

eyes,

the revelation came to

me-clear as their

sight must be,

to see from such heights

a mouse scuttling

toward its nest-

that this

was how you

see the world.

I was relieved

and at peace.

Here, it was

beautiful, quiet,

still, even in its

movement,

yet quite 

alone, even

amongst

companions,

even though I 

could hear the

fluttering of wings

so near as 

to ruffle feathers.

Amongst the navy blue birds

against the pale blue sky,

there were no voices,

no tears, 

no explanations-

the world was

utterly clear, yet

stiflingly 

unspeakable.