They came to me too,
just like you, the birds and the water,
serenity instead of sheep.
Yet the insistent migration,
predictably precisely on
Time,
became
beyond mesmerising.
Understanding holding your breath,
sonar is like sleep talk, let me translate,
Chosen few.
Including the enduring frigate flyer
over vast continents of saltwater-
suspended
with nary a place to land and nest.
A rare sight does not make it fantasy,
pteridactyls still soar
for weeks and weakly
catch flying fish in the skyway,
Survivor skills.
Flocks and pods abound,
we in the middle-straddled here
gasping for air, too bloated to fly
and in one eye,
masterminds
one half at a time.
Meanwhile, we Sleep
grazing.
Painting by François Boucher, Arion on the dolphin, (1748) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
