The sky lies transparent to the sun,
ozone refracting light to blue, scattered
so it’s all that’s seen. Hovering, a bird,
black, screeches in the sky, looking down,
the ground a haven harboring food, birth,
death. She flies, finding updrafts, currents of air,
used to keep her place, a bent cross pinned in the sky.
Then up, aloft, away from sight, deciding now
against the ground, leaving the sky
empty of sight, break, or sound.
Originally published at http://troycamplinpoetry.blogspot.com.