November 13, 2002

Culture

 

the other pre

Poetry/Fiction/Essays/etc.

Icarus

I am not an

ornithologist.

I’m not interested in your migratory instinct,
the tiny footprints you leave in the soft earth,
or your fear of cats.

I’m not interested in the Latin

terms of your order.

I cant tell a trill from a warble, a goose from a gander.
I have no time for the tossing

of stale bread, avoiding the white

droppings that cover the oxidized

shoulders of famous men.

I know nothing of the theory of flight,
friction, navigational axioms,

the difference between primary
feathers and greater coverts.

Photo({graphic)

I pay little attention to the

aerobatic skills of your feeding frenzies,

am often annoyed by your incessant chirping,
your habitation in my chimney.

I am not even curious about

your simple ability to leap from a perch and
cut the air with tiny strokes—

your topographic perspective.

And yet, every night I dream,

my feet leave the earth;

I catch a thermal, and soar off towards

the eminence of the sun.

By Adam Honsinger

Poseidon

 

Photo by Adam Honsing