(Triversen Poem)

I often look at birds, any bird,
land on telephone wires
and feel the bounce in my skin.

Ageing into wire instead of feather
and beak, while I long for hollow
bones instead of time passing by.

I want to jump somewhere to a center,
that deplumes this lethargy that tastes
of ash, an axis that frees my stone-like limbs.

In this transmutation, light
is the becoming and I circle
as a vulture kettling in a thermal.

Without the flapping of my wings
I’ll ride in columns from the warmth
of so many to keep me company.

Today I sit, not on a wire but with hope
that someday before my person softens
back into soil, I can fly and screech.