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.