by Laura Parker Roerden
Every night now the swallows
fall and rise over the hayfield,
slicing the sky as if skinning it open
to feed on insects.
I can imagine DaVinci must have seen them.
His drawings of flying machines spoke of
curved elegance; of momentum that turns
planes of existence upside, down.
of alacrity, and dreams made visible
by wind; aloft a spark of heart applied
to mathematics that unified computation,
through he held a simple pencil to paper.
Our ancestor’s myths rose like birds and
connected us to truth as sinew,
told us of our place in clan,
in dirt and cosmos.
But modern myths divide us.
They take off as false words and ideas
—paper facts crumbled in
clumsy knuckles of hate.
They do nothing to open hope’s heart;
They do not flip the trigger in your throat
that speaks only of the rising and falling
and dawn that is now;
DaVinci was said to buy birds at market
And set them free.
What would he think of the
cages we now willingly enter?
Yes, our myths will never fly;
they separate us from the land and each other
like a knife expertly removes bone
from flesh. If we accept it in hand,
we will never be able to fly like the swallow
in sheer and shameless truth.
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