Email Poem

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Poem

Far below,
a solitary,
white cockatoo
is flying along the valley floor.
It seems lost, separated 
from its flock.
It turns
this way and that
as if following some
scrambled map printed
on its brain. It is so small
and insignificant
set against the immensity
of these mountains.

I can just make out
the ragged notes of its cry
carried through
the deep hush walled
along its way. I hear
alarm and fear woven
into its constant call.
Now, it is getting further away.
I try to hold the sound's
thin tapering thread
by cupping my ear,
but now there is only
the whisperings 
of nearby trees.

Its stark, white,
flapping form
is growing smaller
and fainter as it tacks
into the darkening reaches
of the afternoon.
A tiny, blurred speck
hesitates, flickers briefly,
then is gone.
I stand for a while
as shadows thicken
and fill with cold,
my eyes transfixed
on the point of its going,
letting it go
to fly with almost all
of my life.

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