The larks are not afraid
the warm summer breeze
in their fine feathers so white
so dusty of the landscape
where they get involved like sponges
I was watching them glide
in my warm eyes to the horizon
I felt like a feathered bird inside their lung cups
I gave myself to its low glide
and rise with the strength of a pull
back to the wild height
how to follow its trail through the grove
and rehearse a free fall in the shape of a cross
I who have no reason to stay
on the ground
nor succulent birdseed to lure me more than to depart
to climb the tunnels of the air
spirals of playful spores
high, high
that comforts
that liberates
that opens in halves
the heart
