Chunky and noisy,but with stars in their black feathers,they spring from the telephone wireand instantly

they are acrobatsin the freezing wind.And now, in the theater of air,they swing over buildings,

dipping and rising;they float like one stippled starthat opens,becomes for a moment fragmented,

then closes again;and you watchand you trybut you simply can't imagine

how they do itwith no articulated instruction, no pause,only the silent confirmationthat they are this notable thing,this wheel of many parts, that can rise and spinover and over again,full of gorgeous life.

Ah, world, what lessons you prepare for us,even in the leafless winter,even in the ashy city.I am thinking nowof grief, and of getting past it;

I feel my bootstrying to leave the ground,I feel my heartpumping hard. I want

to think again of dangerous and noble things.I want to be light and frolicsome.I want to be improbable beautiful and afraid of nothing,as though I had wings. Mary Oliver