You may find yourself
looking back at yourself
from these roots and stones
even while this slab of granite
cools the backs of your legs.

You may feel as though you've flown here
from a distance too great to count --
like a raven whose wings cover the world
except for one smudgy spot you call
yourself -- a bit of meat on a rock.
You rest here, coddled by one great wing,
under the hot smell of dark bird.

You would touch
the trailing edge
of the primaries,
stroke their veins,
but for fear you may never
return to yourself.
Yet you long
to feel these feathers,
these black nothings,
bud from blades
and downy back
to lift you from
this dry stone --
to be raised
into a sky
whose water
tastes of sage;
where the face of earth
appears rain-etched
in pockmarked granite,
where the last thing you see
is the world going dark
with the twin wings'
downstroke,
tips touching.