Flying

Richard Wilbur (2009)

Treetops are not so high
Not I so low
That I don't instinctively know
How it would be to fly

Through gaps that the wind makes, ehn
The leaves arouse
And there is a lifting of boughs
That settle and lift again.

Whatever my kind may be,
It is not absurd
To confuse myself with a bird
For the space of a reverie:

My species never flew,
But I somehow know
It is something that long ago
I almost adapted to.