I have come to love this looking
from afar—this awe in the eyes
of the kiwi gazing up at the falcon
flying through the cotton blue sky.
Tell me about pride and I will tell
of the humility of the wingless.
The more I saw my heroes, the more
ordinary they became—flesh as soft,
bone as brittle, blood even redder
than the crimson of marrows.
On earth, there is nothing more
extraordinary than just being human.
All that lies on the horizon of this,
is vanity. The arrow that breaks
a kiwi’s skin will break the falcon’s.
And I have seen giant birds bleed.
It’s ugly. I prefer the beauty of their
lush feathers, the tempest of their winds.
So, let no bird get so drunk on the high
winds, that it stares at the arrow point
of death. I promise you: No kiwi
will jump off a cliff, in haste, even
for the miracle of wings. It’s beautiful,
this dance. So let the music go on
a little longer. The kiwis will keep
making their small noises. Their little
feet will mark the ground for time.