A creative urge, we spread our wings
and fly away and fall
and glide over the near streams and glades.
Out of the trembling wakings of the earth
spring our two spirits, alight with expression
and soon mourning over the murder
of the morning frost.
The bloodhounds of midday are on it-
we watch them devour their early feast
and then sleepily bay in the unbending rays
of the quiet noon sun.
Away we soar
fanning the afternoon heat rising from the city below.
High above towers, the village, and dirty walls we circle,
and we thought we saw Paul Revere.
Hunger stirs us within.
We turn into the long flight home
and soon find ourselves painted in the amber light
off the evening clouds blushed by the setting sun-
soon it will be twilight, past dinner time.
We preen our feathers
in the breezes and transparent light
stirred by the cool slumbering moon,
for tomorrow is a day of toil;
though we have flown away unvexed
and on a long sojourn today,
healing our wounded hearts and taking rest,
we do not live for free!
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