The Fledgling

Racing around the backyard

In the canyon’s strong March winds,

The girl in the pink princess

Dress over blue trousers shrills

Her toddler delight, arms wide

To the gusts buffeting her,

Pure physicality, or

Not quite—imagination

Has already taken hold,

And she shouts to her father

That she’s flying, she’s flying,

And she speculates the wind

Might be strong enough to sweep

Down a bird’s nest she’s spotted

In the still-leafless ash tree.

She covets that nest. She wants

To hold it, look into it.

We need the wind to be strong

To blow the nest down! She shouts

To her observing father,

The mind in her mind flying.