I press my ear to the air
sooner the ground, above 
where whispers frolic, flit really 
chaotic, hissed diphthongs,
there on the breeze there's
none of that, this I can promise,
nothing but clear night
to hold us aloft

if I fall backwards
from this perch
I shall pretend I 
ascend from the moon
of yon planet,
and thus will be spared,
I'll float airily up
ne'er to hit ground

at least this time around

You reach down to cradle me,
pull me up and return me, and 
I am bathed 
in your outstretched colors

Now, once again
you sing
let us entertain
the wind

But I do not fall,
nor do you,
nor have we fallen,

In echelon we carve
cursive sky, paths that
we scarcely recall, nuance
on the turns a matter
of style crafted over eons
in the updrafts

At the apex 
where there is no sound,
one begins

cc: Chagall 2021