Darren Caffrey

A trace of wings


Everything is not a fight, so it might be pondered where it falls that the challenge begins. Is it the uplift, where going up is coming down? Is there someone standing still and looking at both as unlikely to even be real? To venture would surely take from now. Where now continues to make its plea for sense and the nonsense of pity, for those unreal. There are birds whose course appears to rise as they wish, whose force is the same blood divided to power two separate wings. The openings of their angel backs, a quickening of their winds. They are shown to take leave of one another and sometimes themselves, to leave from everything too slow that they could simply fly up over. Landing only to feed and rest, only to take their place in flight once more. To rise against all knowing, up and in to an already missing sky of blues. A full breast of sky, not ever the same. Unsure of its gaps and holes, and too, its presence amongst the kingdom of an all-powerful nature. Each birds wings had reached once to touch what passed above them. To make their movements fit within, to fit without these grounds below. How far can the reach of belief take any one anything. Some things are fought to stave off threat and hunger. Somewhere, a bird is fighting good sense to learn to fly, unsure as the sky is, and looking up at her to open and lift. The purchase gained is clear. Two wings clip the body of each bird, touching the pinnacle of man, whose arms are that little bit too short to take his part along with them. He is seen to look at them as they take for life that nothing is so granted. On a winter’s ledge, with the hard ground left to work against them, the bird is known to him, finding care with the piece of man, never once forgetting the day he watched the year and ages overhead. Standing up to take in the skies fuel, he told the bird it could not be done. Too small, with too short a reach of wingspan, smaller than the arm’s-length he thought. Each day he would watch the year and all the ages as he gave his strength to master the ground, from which he would view their soar. The birds were left to make the skies their own. They climbed the mountain he could not, to drop then to the seas. Although, once taken to flight, they had seen that the sky was opened in, through them; yet they too were the blood bound to freedom. They were always going, only to come back. These days, where man is found to give his bread for the birds, it is here that they might be caught in sight, as they chase off his pleas toward the wings of nature’s love. Away with them, these birds are lightest when they go. Taken to disappear, they scatter out across the earth, lifting to heights, which our earth can never become. So man has found his paradise to form, as the birds make their swoop to speed through time of space, looking for the coast of some new far-off island. When they return, they bring back with them the tales that feed our imagination and live as the most ancient maps we may dream a world.