By Brian Hill
Born of joy, a bird
in flight, flutters;
the song it utters
to the arching sky
contains syllables
never heard before
that soar
above the earth.
There is no pattern
no design, no shape
in the cascading escape
of notes.
The bird, flying
on its wind-sheared wings,
takes its freedom, sings
in its blue-sky voice,
of air beneath it, of rising
in the air above, and all around,
sings spiralling to ground,
sings ascending;
it sings in jubilation,
an instrument,
a slender filament
of heaven.