Free-Rider

March 26 2020

The hovering birds

circle on currents of air,

riding the thermals

steadily up.

Their ascent

seems without effort,

supported on outstretched wings

with barely a flicker or luff.

As if they were free-riders,

exempt

from gravity's basic law.

But this is deceptive,

because at such a distance

we never see them feel their way;
the dip of a wing, trimming of feathers,

the subtle reflexive adjustments

according to pitch and roll and yaw

of a creature adapted to flight.

And also because

they're actually hard at work,

big chest muscles tense

hearts relentlessly pumping,

intricate lungs

sucking-up cold rarefied air.

Looking down

from their commanding heights

on earthbound creatures like us

who only dream of flight.

Small penetrating eyes

like highly polished beads.

Tiny brains

but brilliant at navigation.

They were dinosaurs, once;

terrible lizards

who made the ground shudder

beneath their ponderous weight.

But now they are birds,

hollow-boned and feather-lite

and nimble as furtive prey.

A curved line

inscribed on clear blue sky

high overhead.

Then a barely discernible dot

shrinking as it rises.