This Is Where The Wild Things Live
Seagulls, untethered from the sky,
float in the violent air, like wreckage
pushed and pulled by these stormy winds
away from their aimless heading.
There is no care in them.
The trees below tear and thrash,
limbs break and crash on the reef
of earth below, scattered like jetsam
along with all the loose things,
the litter and detritus of the world.
The birds do not care.
They only know the empty air
and high skies through which they drift
and float on wide spread wings,
sometimes silent, sometimes singing
the songs of their freedom.
They do not care for common earth,
for land that simply sits,
that serves as just a resting place,
for nesting on between sailings
on the oceans of wind
where they live.
They do not care
for little men, watching them, longing
for some wings so they may share the air
of seagulls, untethered from the sky.