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Colorado, can you hear me? Are you listening? Do you even care? Are you even there? The concrete canopy, mountains of symmetry; the city policy, the city air. The boroughs I have seen seem so unfair, as do the feathers on the sidewalks I find there. I do not need to speak, but I want to listen to the tiniest of flights and their transmissions. The words tied to their wings are the words I'm going to sing. A noise, small and strong: A bird is a song. Torch the sails, and set ire to our deals: My heaven is here, my heaven is here. Who would need escape, who would seek salvation from a place so bright and clear? I do not need to see, but I need a vision. I want seamless operation upon ignition. The fuel that I salt away will keep us through the darkest of days; will keep us well through winters long, and when springtime starts her broadcast, the birds are our song Keep your feathers clean and dry. |
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