flies out of the sun

he doesn’t know his spots

are night fires lit by gods

or his wings wind galloping ghosts

or his eyes arrow sorrowful truth

his feathers furl a lovers’ breath

he cries unheard tympani

blood and grass

hooved by dust to come

he doesn’t know

he was not born eagle

nor care

for when he dives

he is father

the falling sun.

– © T.L. Murphy  –

– Photo by Nigam Machchhar –