The Dream Bird

These last few days,
this shrinking light —

the calendar promising
an end soon
to a year that seemed long
before it was near its end —
and the start of a new one.

I close my eyes
expecting no closure
from an arbitrary number
on a piece of paper,
weary of the trudging progress
that got me here.

No, I’m a bird tonight,
in accord with more certain rhythms
that will lead to renaissance,

planning to fly home
when the right moment finally comes
no matter the date,
expecting to soar
and circle, then begin the direct route
to a resting place,

a place I’ll know in my hollow bones
when I get there.