Out of doors, the whole world's <br />like a songbird, radantly alive, <br />getting ready to soar aloft, <br /> <br />till I turn and walk <br />down the stairs <br />to the asphalt carport. <br /> <br />How dim <br />is that black substance, <br />how dully my heart <br />reflects back from it, <br /> <br />but I cease reflecting <br />as above a great bird, <br />wings of perfect symmetry outspread, <br />glides in arcs drawn <br />by a compass in the Hand of God. <br /> <br />He spirals like a paper airplane, <br />alighting high in a gum-oak tree, <br /> <br />yielding the sky to his mate <br />who appears, circles, <br />and disappears <br />into the same tree.<br /><br />Max Reif<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-a-saturday-afternoon-in-spring/
