Grunts

I wanted we all wanted yes
for the smog to be decimated
for the sun to kiss and caress us
like the moon longs for its rest
like the colt and fawn must run
yes like tree tops look upward
I wanted to rise above my heavy
hearted grunting.

Hand-held and art-laden
expectantly we orient
our face to the blue bowl
refreshed with a natural
flash of an orchestral
flocking sound echoing
the myriad voiced primordial
grunt that is us.

What sky do you see without
my taking off in it duck-like?
My wingspan gives your eye length
my flapping a measure of time
I am joined after each circle
by more of my honking kin
the arcs we make gather you up
to grunt and fly.

The earth being a ball
falling in annual circles
we cannot jump off
and swim into the beyond
the only way from here
to the path of milky white
is through the little miracle
of the last grunt.

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About mrsorenson

all over the place
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