Falling is instinct. Any fool chickadee
knows how to surrender
to gravity. It’s not some triumph.
Even your planet falls
endlessly toward its sun.
Nothing to admire here, or lament.
Just the way it is.
Empires. Angels. Who cares?
The earth still tugs our bones
homeward, arrogance eroded
by mud and man and bumblebee jazz.
That we remain aloft as long as we do—
well. Don’t be stupid. It’s not a parable.
Just fools like us denying better natures
for the transient thrill of wind
ruffling our feathers.
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