because we don’t have wings that flap
we drive we wait we cram we pack,
we measure, weigh, and stack our bags,
we pull at all those zippers.
and while dreaming or dreading our destinations,
we soar through clouds, perspectives shaken,
we imagine the breeze
we will windows away,
but then birds don’t need barf bags, do they.
and birds flap and they flutter, they screech and they sing
but we, we sit quiet and read magazines.
in neat rows with thin blankets, we shiver, we wait,
cradle plastic tea cups, pilot holding our fate.
whether joyful or stoic, feathers or skin,
leaving the ground equals taking a risk.
plan-pack or just leave, leave the nest not too late.
birds know it, as we do,
that flying takes faith.