My heart in hiding/ Stirred for a bird, — the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!” — from The Windhover by Gerard Manley Hopkins
We have a pair of kites in our neighborhood,
but you must have a sharp eye to find them.
I am constantly looking to the sky
and in the limbs of leafless trees
as they seem to prefer to alight in starkness,
on the tips above the lesser branches
reserved for the smaller pigeon or robin.
I am quite obsessed with photographing
these elusive fliers; I find them regal,
reminiscent of eagles in their lift of wing
and heft when taking off from branch to fly,
almost as if they are diving from a high
cliffside. They are remarkably fluid
in flight, and they spiral as they wind-lift
higher, wider and wider out until I lose
sight and release a heavy sigh of sadness,
aching for another time when the thrilling
view will last just a few seconds longer,
but I understand — I would follow up
that winding path mounting the heights
of heaven too, if I had such wings to fly.
—C.L. Fisher, August 2020
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