Sometimes, turning just my head from
computer to window gaze, I hold my arms out –
wingspan of an albatross, believing
I can fly, following ships at sea,
where walls and ceilings float away
with a sweep of my feathered limb.
Only the air can contain me, gravity
is not the enemy. If I were a dance-bird
I would dance, if a song-bird, I’d sing, but
I’m a desk-bird today.