We are the lark in flight, defending our
breeding borders and luring mates with song.
We are the limb supporting our tender
talons when we land to rest, to belong
to earth. We are the fallen leaf, perfect
floor for our ground nest of dry twig and grass.
We are the larva—caterpillar pecked
from cocoon or beetle grub from mud—passed
to our young for food. We are lingering
breeze, lifting us, allowing us to soar,
to linger ourselves above all, to bring
focus to our gliding search: something more,
always something more to carry back home
until our final flight. And we are loam.
Roger Armbrust
June 30, 2009
