Flying Low

Trees drink heavily
while the naive night falls
with nothing to catch it
my bones are soaked
skin is slipping off
flat on my belly
hands reaching for the wind
to hold them
they yell at me
come down from there
but I never left
I'm right here, ear to soil
listening to a black seed rise
his mother calls his name
as she will many times with no reply,
with no reply
his name tries to walk away
but the sun picks him up
suspended, we spin
until it pours
in spite of predictions of a
clear Friday afternoon
from a man that is usually wrong,
but inevitably trusted
and no sooner do I land,
I'm looking out the window
to fly again.