April 1983

That distant bird

Afloat on high

Is a creature of the imagination

Its wings don’t flap

But instead leave behind

Frail streams of white

That are tossed on the winds

And disappear as do dreams

Its cry in the day

Though metallic in sound

Is regarded with ease

But at night

When its eyes are aflame

It springs from the dark

A phantom against the stars

And assaults the senses

With the sound

Of nightmares