THE WEIGHT OF INNER AIR
            Frank Stokes
                c. 1973, 2000
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    Two they are,
    though not a pair, for each
    is wholly alone.

    In heft of feathered
    husk these robins have wrapped
    themselves today,

    and they must weigh
    alone the heaviness,
    the earth pull.

    No one could here
    pretend that soaring is
    their gifted deed,

    that they hold title
    to the air that fills
    their ducted bones.

    To see them thus--
    on thick-twigged shafts stubbed
    into wing-high grass--

    is to know the price
    of flight, the winged mass
    that ransoms fetters.

    All flying
    creatures know the weight
    of cargoed self.

    You watchers
    who study passive flight
    and sunlit airs,

    it will take more
    than hollow bones to loose you
    from the soil

    that feeds them now,
    fastened among the roots
    of plain song.
              
                                                     
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