In the middle of sweeping the afternoon,
the sun painted on hardwood floors,
my arms uncoil like rope
and the broom falls with a shallow snap.
A cardinal sits on the fence,
its red heart beating with desire
for altitude and grace,
for predatory dives
transcending time and expectation,
wings of tapered fire
ready to mock all nomenclature of place.
From the fence,
I look in the window at the empty room,
the wooden handle of the idle broom.
Steady wing-beats fill my lungs with altitude
and lust for all things great.
The earth falls away like a shadow,
a timeless afternoon with desires that cannot wait.