All I knew was that they were here,
and then they were gone, somewhere
between the moon and darkness, a mirror
of night in scissor-tailed sorcery.
I don't know where home is -
it is not in the lexicon of those
in perpetual motion, and such haste
that even a snake must be snatched
between wingbeats, between action
and reaction, in the ambition to be
guardians of their own ovate omens,
such hurry that there is no time
for names - the silence of the air
rarely snapped beyond alarm.
This is the urgency of purpose -
we are biologically armed with love,
for love, and I have always understood
the safety of quiet - perhaps these kites
are a perfect reflection of existence -
of my life, of our lives, how each wave
of pain arrives and departs in tides,
why we all nest amongst the needles
of a loblolly pine, entrenched in clay,
roots woven into ancient bones
and the fossils of memory.
Written for Peach who sent me details of swallow-tailed kites and told me that when she was a child that she thought they appeared and disappeared magically.