Avian Caligraphy

Radiant the thermals rise
from red rooftop tiles,
lobster-coloured patios,
and beach of coral sand;
the lifting heat
from acres of reflective surfaces,
pouring upward in the noonday sun.
Palms and pencil pines,
hills in spreading background frame;
Montego-Blue the water,
waves lap gentle on the shore,
all this a tactile manuscript,
as I watch the birds arrive.

First comes one,
and then a score –
soaring
with seeming gentle grace;
all blacks and greys
in feathered space,
rising on the thermals there.
I watch in rapt amazement,
that these massive birds
can lift, and glide, and rise –
seemingly forever –
with seldom flap of wings,
and form a squadron-column
searching ground for carrion,
and other loathsome things.

Round they circuit,
racetrack patterns in the air,
hanging silent in the sky.
Heads are turning, looking,
spying on us
from their floating height,
each one in its turn,
as round it comes again
over beach, and lane, and garden
seeking prey,
or road-kill,
to sustain
its endless sweeping flight.

Hour adds on hour
until the heat has waned,
and then,
one by one,
the birds fly off,
seeking other
landscapes thermal
over which to sail.

This day I’ve read
an avian calligraphy -
a narrative writ by birds -
while sitting here
and watching overhead as
Vultures cruised
their aerial domain.

They have wings to write the sky.
But I –
I have only words.


JAMES Gagiikwe © 2008