the furious beating of wings.

"They wheeled in a wide arc
with beating wings and then
they put their wings to sleep
And glided downward in a drift
of pure abandonment
Until they touched the surface of the lake
composed their wings, and settled
on the rippling water
as though it were a nest. " -Anne Porter, "Wild Geese Alighting on a Lake"

We are furiously beating
our wings, always gasping
for breath as we seek
some imaginary destination
always further and further,
higher and higher.
So desperate are we
to make it upwards,
we do not see
the sky we fly in,
or feel the wind
the brushes our
radiant faces.
We never stop
to rest our weary wings
until they break and crack
and we plummet like Icarus
toward the hard earth,
despairing and weeping
that it was all for nothing.
What would it be to
unfurl our heavy limbs,
and let the invisible
carry us; to glide
and drift with abandon;
to open our mouths to
drink in the sweet air
and our eyes to see
the wide expanse of
sky and possibility?