“We are put on earth a little space that
we may learn to bear the beams of love.”
William Blake

Together, two circle, then soar— far above the
dusty heat of prickly desert floor—
feathered gliders, spin—
turn the invisible strings of their desire.

Black lace wings fall— surge
to weave through blue updrafts of appetite.
From redwood porch, they
suspend our Easter meal of ham and veal.

The children wriggle out— leap their bare feet—
pound the deck— providing hot breathy music
for hawks aspiring the courtship dance.

We two arise— lift our wings to shield aching eyes.
Sharp with ambition, aiming to follow high spirals,
we’re carved by hooked beaks of allure.

Talons interlocked— grandparents sit alone, wishing to
chase that narrow shaft at rest, their bird souls coming—
then go free, at will

With neither song nor aim— in peace, they glide
in and out of the light.