Above a Mimosa tree
with flowers going to seed,
dripping down pink
to the ground, green;
hark, the stir of wings.

Holding on to air
is the quickening sound;
don't dare interrupt the flow;
make quiet your watch, not caught.

The dignity of a spear
assaults the flowing tresses
bunched and pressed there;
leaning into the drifting breeze,
cuddled in quiet wait to fall from tree.

Lithe with zip-twirl,
the road an airway;
it supped at bird-stop,
filled-up with sweetest fuel,
then stopped before my wonder-face
and dared the air between us,
then was gone.

Above a Mimosa tree,
holding on to air,
the dignity of a spear
lithe with zip-twirl ...
hark, the quiet stir of wings.