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Reading the Rainbow Sky

One summer evening, the dusk rolling down like a shade for the night, I found myself on the front porch, admiring a rainbow, watching a few birds deep in flight. I watched all the flyers as they swooped and they soared. All of them living life free, my constant gaze they fully ignored. I sat and I watched, I lost myself in their glory. It was beyond my understanding, my eyes read the sky as their glide told their story. It was a novel to watch, the text invisible to see, But nothing in the birds' glorious nature was able to escape the pages in front of me. Their wings fully extended like quill pens in the air. The words floated off their feathers, each dropping down from the sky with rhythm and care. My eyes caught every word, every sentence, the clusters of gorgeous prose. By now I was captured I couldn't get enough, out of my chair and to my feet I finally rose. The birds continued to inscribe in the sky, nothing but peace and passion seem all they sought after. With each flap of their silky wings they continued to present to me, chapter after wondrous chapter. I admired these magnificent poets, these winged masters had me lured. They adorned the sky with purity, turning the night before me into a grand theater of their word. Then the shadows closed dark on the rainbow sky like a cover on a novel. The birds' inkwell ran dry, no more brilliant arc left to marvel. Even after the denouement, I still applauded my praises. But the birds paid no mind, for they need not my good graces. So I stood quiet and I stood still, my mind perched in the afterglow. Thankful having found the birds' literary masterpiece atop that of a world best fit for a rainbow. In the end it took me their narrative to realize just what they knew. That whether you fly high or stand tall, you should always feel free, just being you. January 18, 2016