by Ellen Hinsey

    There， in the air——traceless blue——arena of circuits

    And saunters， some rise with difficulty

    'While others lift buoyant， tack¹ of tail turned

    Westward——take wide air under their keel，

    And sprint²， shoot and sail up to where， in invisible

    Gyres they revolve³ tropical or northern，

    Spreading their full breadth to survey the scene，

    Their prey⁴ hidden in land folded and patched；

    Others， tail-sure tuck and dive， fall in a single tear，

    Against a stony⁵ silhouette⁶ of hill； others

    In wind jibe⁷ and yaw， storm-wise， head into

    Air as prows⁸ take the jab and flack of waves——

    But some are threaded by thin parachute， line of silk，

    They soar only when bidden， cross a width

    Of draft， but hang when the wind is becalmed

    And suspended； still others come from deeper

    Hues——leap into air as if seeking a higher realm，

    Where hidden stars crown a miraculous⁹

    Dome¹⁰ of blue——fly on their fins¹¹， and their short

    Leap is the curve of Noah's colored arc：

    Still for others， flight is trammeled——rooted， as fires lift

    Only in sparks， but are held fast to their

    Flames； and sound flies blindly over distance，

    But cannot renew the force of its thrust；

    Sight sweeps and tempers rise； tall grasses bend and

    Rumors¹² mount； winds wind over， as insects

    Hover¹³， and stars speed free under frail¹⁴ failing

    Night， while fleet tongues tell their tales——

    And Knowledge——poor earth-bound ember——sails，

    But fails to ignite.

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