When I was four,
ten thousand birds would fly
over uptown New Orleans on variegated fall afternoons,
the sky closing down faster in its pantomime of purple.
Cool October evenings know when it is time
I wanted only to float into this chevron migration
and beat my wings in iambic pentameter to swell a scene or two.
Wise in the ways of equinox, they knew
had nothing to say about this time between times.
A different October canopy spreads above me now,
but I do not seek the escape of a childhood
I sit on a bench and roll into brush strokes on the horizon,
marveling at the broad parameters of dusk.
And yet it is not time to surrender to the
tapping on my bones or seeking closure for my brain.
There are many skies to travel yet, many hills to climb.