1THE DOWN drop of the blackbird, The wing catch of arrested flight, The stop midway and then off: off for triangles, circles, loops of new hieroglyphsâ€” This is Aprilâ€™s way: a woman: â€œO yes, Iâ€™m here again and your heart knows I was coming.â€
2White pigeons rush at the sun, A marathon of wing feats is on: â€œWho most loves danger? Who most loves wings? Who somersaults for Godâ€™s sake in the name of wing power in the sun and blue on an April Thursday.â€ So ten winged heads, ten winged feet, race their white forms over Elmhurst. They go fast: once the ten together were a feather of foam bubble, a chrysanthemum whirl speaking to silver and azure.
3The child is on my shoulders. In the prairie moonlight the childâ€™s legs hang over my shoulders. She sits on my neck and I hear her calling me a good horse. She slides downâ€”and into the moon silver of a prairie stream She throws a stone and laughs at the clug-clug.