He keeps his wings
constricted, closely held
to his body,
staying put as he finds himself
unable to set sail;
his skies today unclear.
He lingers on the branch of
his oak tree,
perching with his brothers as they
greatly sing their songs,
though his remains stiff
in his throat.
But a zephyr brushes his plumage
and shining into his eyes
is the dawning sun -
suddenly everything is forgotten,
and his wings slowly rise;
before one can blink he is airborne,
sailing through his illuminated zenith,
never taking his eyes from
the sun, his compass,
the star that leads his way
home.