Above the Clouds

Way above, in someone´s blue heaven,
the mountains´ fingers claw
at the azure,
brown talons emerging from
snow-white gloves.
We hover, suspended
in the cerulean air,
buffeted by the wind.
And the chatter is from
ворон or грач,
not any indigenous snowbird.
The honk of Dutch Belgian geese
drowns the solitary cry
of a Scottish hawk,
I look in vain
for a lost Atlantic Petrel
far from her Southern home.
We are all birds above
the clouds, in Austrian Skies.