Before they even slip into
their golden-yoked shells,
before their bodies even begin
to form bones and beaks and brains,
the spirits of birds dream of flying.
That is why they come here.
They come pushed by dreams
of sky rushing through feathers,
of gliding through air, of darting
among the branches of trees.
They dream of swooping and falling
and climbing again on strong wings,
of racing with clouds and drifting
on breezes. It will take effort,
this dream. But they hold to it
until it turns true and they find
themselves soaring and free.