Another Offering
The mountains won't cry,
The sky is only the sky, and it -
Will not change its course, for anyone;
The cold, scouring wind has no sympathy:
Seemingly impossibly adept,
The huge, speckled bird swings down -
From the dark, snow-swept sky,
From the looming, purple mountains.
The bird masterfully hovers for a moment,
Buffeted this way and that by the wind;
Changes course mid air,
Sheer poetry in motion,
Utter aerial ballet,
Then splatters the gilded temple's dome
With its droppings.
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