Cage

Whereabout went the days when
riding the tide of winds on a spring
afternoon took me anywhere at
all? Would I be abashed to learn they've
up and gone? The longer I've
remained in this crooked space, the
farther I've parted from pine sap stuck
to youthful hands, gracing the tops of
trees where humans aren't meant to
be. A cardinal takes flight, fallen branches in
its grasp, and I sit in the field watching
sunset light turn the grass into a green,
shimmering ocean. The condition is
one of being mortal - of being a
passenger on the rails of time - and
yearning is but a waste of good scenery.