While I sat, considering,
a one thousand-footer traversed
two-thirds my far horizon.
It is empty, up bound for
ore,
and birds hang about
again.
Can anyone say
what is heaven,
where is God, who
or what makes a miracle?
From Lords and leaders,
hear we
expectations of the end,
some write their salutations,
bend
any willing ear
to hear the guillotine hit,
as mask and wig tumble
toward the pit
and disappear.
I am not afraid, today.
I am the sea-bird,
the goose,
the grass.
My wings lift, knowing
there is air and
gravity,
water, ships and
sand,
all this was before –
all this comes again.
Robert On The Air 