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First, there must be a cloud or wind, something
drifting, or sweeping away from the branches
on which we’ve perched, some proof of direction,
the far fields of possibility and its cozy nest.
Next, there must be something lighting the way,
though not light, per se, but what allows us to see,
to maneuver through trees and hills, dodge birdshot,
the murderous deniers of our distant desires.
Maybe it’s a vision so clear the dark can’t darken it,
and the mountainous range of roadblocks
and barricades can’t dim the image of it. It’s fixed
and steady. An unchanging map in our blood,
a compass in our bones pointing to the true north
of our nature, sparking the final impulse to open
to the world that needs us, to spread the full extent
of our wings that are now ready to bear us up.
Copyright 2022 Michael T. Young