Chunky and noisy,/ but with stars in their black feathers,/ they spring from the telephone wire/ and instantly// they are acrobats/ in the freezing wind./ And now, in the theater of air,/ they swing over buildings,// dipping and rising;/ they float like one stippled star/ that opens,/ becomes for a moment fragmented,// then closes again;/ and you watch/ and you try/ but you simply can’t imagine// how they do it/ with no articulated instruction, no pause,/ only the silent confirmation/ that they are this notable thing,// this wheel of many parts, that can rise and spin/ over and over again,/ full of gorgeous life.// Ah, world, what lessons you prepare for us,/ even in the leafless winter,/ even in the ashy city./ I am thinking now/ of grief, and of getting past it;// I feel my boots/ trying to leave the ground,/ I feel my heart/ pumping hard. I want// to think again of dangerous and noble things./ I want to be light and frolicsome./ I want to be improbable beautiful and afraid of nothing,/ as though I had wings.

Mary Oliver