Not that light falls unbroken

like snow falling on snow

but that the sky flies open

like an eye. Today, an astonishment

of blue and one gray scissortail

who is sharpening his passion

for heights. When did motion become

invisible? Faster than my retina

can think wingblur this ribbon

of plumage, this swashbuckler

with his dabs of red, this uproar,

this bullet explodes up a spine

of air. Where the sky is,

a clear pandemonium as he tumbles,

climbs toward the sun, tumbles, climbs

and tumbles. He flirts with

brilliance. His feathers oppose

his backward somersaults like thumbs

as his throat opposes the silence

with lines of raucous skrees like dashes,

high-pitched cackles and rolls

he repeats like a creed:

I believe in noise,

I believe in the courtship of light,

I believe in the dance,

the dance, always the dance.

Articles by Barbara Seaman

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