It was passed from one bird to another, <br />the whole gift of the day. <br />The day went from flute to flute, <br />went dressed in vegetation, <br />in flights which opened a tunnel <br />through the wind would pass <br />to where birds were breaking open <br />the dense blue air - <br />and there, night came in. <br /> <br />When I returned from so many journeys, <br />I stayed suspended and green <br />between sun and geography - <br />I saw how wings worked, <br />how perfumes are transmitted <br />by feathery telegraph, <br />and from above I saw the path, <br />the springs and the roof tiles, <br />the fishermen at their trades, <br />the trousers of the foam; <br />I saw it all from my green sky. <br />I had no more alphabet <br />than the swallows in their courses, <br />the tiny, shining water <br />of the small bird on fire <br />which dances out of the pollen.<br /><br />Pablo Neruda<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/bird/
