Gold wing sing it.
Transluce the morning in a wing-beat.
Transmute the sunlight unleashed at long last.
Refulge it on down to us in black-outlined drops.
Transluce clamp-lipped hearts with heavy dripping gold-shine
on wing, awning of black-ridged gold-throb dipping
down in fleet flotilla, your sweet-winged sisters
and brothers listing earthward also.
Aye, all wings! Transluce the morn-light!
Aurify it amply, umbered amber lambent, bent in flap,
snapped out in flight, the abandoned breast-jump of birds
for which no words suffice and yet no mean receiver
can abide in silence.
Golden-folded rays imbue beast-men such as I who cry out
in too-fast words fastwards at your captured, ambered,
slowed rich flow-wing.
Golden-fisted gobble, the honeyed light of your flight
on hairy paws and belched back in skyward sticky roars.
We cannot match grace with you.
This growling is our only poesis or part played.
Forgive our need to lung it back
and our round sung so grossly,
and your wings returned to you all chewed,
the pellucid swatches damped and darkened
by our mawing happy ululations,
half-mad emulations of your gold wing song.
But how can we be silent when you benedict us so?
(photo by Flannery O’Kafka)