It is the sinew strung between
rising and falling
that yields flight;
the interplay
of
muscle, feather, air
that holds
the fan-tailed hawk
still
in the breeze.
Even the strongest wings rely
on the same nothingness
for lift and pull,
as we, who trust
the tension between breaths
to keep us safely tethered
hovering, rejoicing
in our flight,
still
mindful of the risk
of growing tired;
suspicious of
what it might mean
to land.