ECHO 30/12/05

Between branches, close interstices, the ribcages are as fine as filigree – delicate, yet insurmountable, capable after all of defying gravity, carrying the weight in flight, angelic in there amid those budding winter branches – eyes black, opalescent, staring back – do they recognize me for what I am?
The proud red breast of a Robin in stasis there, some other bodily momentum that I can only ever guess at – singularity of purpose – whilst the parliament and alarms gather;
flight bears a deity, the primary coverts bear the wind, the scapulars bear promise, the tail the past, and so on –
I am merely spinning clumsy hands on metal, through alien water, waiting for some clarity again or else another chance opportunity tomorrow, who knows –
but gazing there into that bush, that spindly chapel of activity is like being allowed out of this time or plane and into another one of ultimate calm, a great sphere, the giant breath as these creatures come near, singing, exhaling, upright there on the tips of the branches, their chests pushed out toward the rain, sweet and good oxygen passes across where no human can distract me or play out their jealousies -