Soft hymn of wind—
the only sound
morning sun turns Savanna
into delirious gold
looking for lions
looking for us
eyes, necks
strain right than left
it’s quiet as a burglar
then something drops
He freefalls
draws us
into downward spiraling
so fast we hold our breathing
stunned by his
courageous abandon display
his possible death
but salvation-wings
carry him like a frisbee
then pulse him up,
up to repeat the ritual—
ever ancient ever new.
Every display is ecstatic
Every display is ecstatic leap
Every display is ecstatic leap for his mate
I feel a great urging toward his flaunt
a shift inside me like a boiling
he is better at living
than my neat classical sonata life—
predictable movements, safe chord patterns.
As if he is flying inside a requiem
surrendering to exhilaration
surrendering to possible convulsive crash
Every wild display
Every wild display of passion
Every wild display of passion only for her
