|
| wing |
| trying to wing her way back |
| through the dirty air of the harbor |
| tired, her plumage ruffled and stained |
| from her brush with the world |
| her eyes, tears of dirt, |
| still she'll push on, piercing the sky, |
| silhouette wings angled graceful |
| the last remains of resolve; |
| wordless, she deserves something better |
| than telling her tale could have done... |
| © Jon Bohrn (1999) |
