My Human Disguise.
A bird in flight, unless it is diving,
Will spread and flash its wings in relentless
Thrust upon the air, a constant striving
For elevation, distance, a restless
Agitation driven by hunger’s need,
Expressed in unmindfully graceful speed.
Only a bird in space can fold its wings
As it rises and point up with its beak,
Not needing to look down to hunt, to seek.
And no bird in airless flight ever sings.
The artist could have named it Bird In Flight,
But that would have tethered it to the ground.
You say he has, here, with a marble mound.
Imagined, the bird disappears in sight.