The Sound of Wings

Mirrors

A leaf, color half-transformed, wandering to me, like a feather falling from a rushing migrating bird, gifted me a faint sigh when hitting on the concrete pavement. A sparrow, teamed up, flying over me, like an elegant wind, left me no clouds when disappearing into the clear sky. A breeze, gentle yet firm, passing through me, like an adept flute player, cooled off on skin while pulling me into a song. An instrumentalist, standing still, becomes more of themself, like an autumn tree parting leaves, told me everything.

I stand still, remembering how my deft fingers pluck strings. I remain still, remembering how my mesmerizing song hugs spaces. I am alone in stillness, remembering how my layered language clouds my heart.

I return home, having left a leaf to its own season. The freshly cleaned mirror in the entryway, asking not to look away. What reflection do I seek? A quiet figure with a patient ear? Or an image of blank? I look back in my window and see a lucent shadow, but through I see birds in a tree — surely headed south, for warmer shores and seas. How can they traverse these miles with no compass but their heart? What fledgling goose smells the breeze and sees their path written in the sky?

Sound of wing beats in my ear. I close my eyes tight and listen through a tear. To the sounds of summer flying away, the rustle of leaves not either long to stay. Giving way to the harvest, the fruit of summer heat, filling our stores before winter gusts strong. I hear a refraction, reaching back far, to a land without words, image, or car. To flight of geese, and sound of wing, echoes of Self, sung steady.