Thrum

i

Circle on updraft,

float on tomorrows.

Call, you may call.

Hear, yes, I hear,

sound between flight feathers,

...but my bones

…...my bones

……… they do not.

ii

Mast shears, sails  flounder,

purpose steers

through clouds of spume.

Reverie anchors my wild.

iii

In sleep I writhe

and ride waves,

follow your flight, free.