Flying

Tree tops are not so high
Nor I so low
That I don’t instinctively know
How it would be to fly.
Though the gaps that the winds makes
The leaves arise
And there is a lifting of bushes
That settle and lift again
Whatever my kind may be, it is not absurd
To confuse myself with a bird
For the space of a reverie:
My species never flew
But I somehow know
It is something that long ago
I almost adopted to.

“Flying” ~ Richard Wilber