'Wisdom' and Other Words To Live By From a Wet-Behind-The Ears Oracle

I see how they look me over
when they choose to light,
perching fat and happy on a ledge
like an old man after dinner.
It’s not really condescension,
they’re above that sort of thing.
It’s the dignity of rest from flight,
the privilege of ascension
that entitles them to stare.
All that perspective in a beady eye
must be what moves the birds to sing.
There’s a poise of purpose there
that brings them close at hand,
a mission in the lack of motion.
It’s the burden and the boast,
the blessing and the curse
of seeing from the sky,
of drama from a distance,
and knowing what they know.
It’s a kind of inspiration,
a model for the calmer breathing
I will master, perhaps,
a lifetime or two from now
when I’ve mapped the layout of the land,
when I’ve learned the letting go,
the knowledge of the wind
that works as wings,
when I can fly.