Wings of Tale
Our stories came from heart and hollow, wings of birds as different as heron and swallow.
Riding them, we soared and fled; in their shadows, blindly groped in souls, and in their varied voices, heard our own.
Migrating in November, we launched our thousands, like a storm of arrows from bows in one maelstrom of flight.
We sent them out to dash against the immortal sky, to watch them fall, to home, to hand.
Who sees the flock and marvels at the many varied wings
may not know
the more we tell, the more tales to mind words bring.
This poem originally appeared 2002-07-05