I go for the light, the light, a love
of heights and thaw. Sweets out of season.
Daylong trilling trly and prrit.
A whole flock’s skyward veer and the white
of underwing.

Living in the dark takes will. Irony.
A strong stomach for dearth, dearth, dried fruit.
And no harm, time to time, to sing too much
in the sun, exotic plums, fresh blistered lemon
on the lips.

These flights are just a lark, a lark, a least
creature’s thirst quenched. I do descend, in time. 
Once I’ve soared trilling out of sight,
I’ll fold back wings and fall
like a stone.