Perhaps a bird does not conclude
it will fly or it will fall; it flies, falls.
Open to loneliness, what darkness
can I enter alone? Resistant
to loneliness, am I not moved
to seek the light of support, of the known?
Open to learning, who am I
to see or say for another?
Resistant to learning, am I not moved
to teach others, to praise method’s stasis?
Clearly we are not birds, though we
fly, fall. Clearly we know where we’re headed.