It's a long way down from this
dust-for-shingles roof,
with bird's feet curled on edge.
How I got here, unsure; my past
a hushed melody whispered
among the trees, then dropped
off the branches,
onto the blades of grass
like dew.

It's a few feathers off my back.

But I can't stand here forever,
looking down.
So I'll look up, defiant
of the long grass below.

The sun glints a white star
and draws a whistle
from somewhere inside me.
Low, a gentle call to the slumberous.
High, a giggle
Good mourning; and gone
are my fears as I take flight,
dripped to the up-reaching blades
in one swoop and a turn,
I arise and fly
to the sun.