A big white bird, high, alone,
wide-winged, oh, if I could fly
I would hear the air whisper,
stitch old sights to new, rejoice
for pale wings in motion, but
if I'd never seen a white bird
would I call this distant vision
angelic, an omen, a sign,
a blessing as it moves air
above me, trailing myth?
And if the bird were black?
Still, it would focus my sight.