Where the Sky Is

Not that light falls unbroken 
like snow falling on snow 

but that the sky flies open 
like an eye. Today, an astonishment 

of blue and one gray scissortail 
who is sharpening his passion 

for heights. When did motion become 
invisible? Faster than my retina 

can think wingblur this ribbon 
of plumage, this swashbuckler 

with his dabs of red, this uproar, 
this bullet explodes up a spine 

of air. Where the sky is, 
a clear pandemonium as he tumbles, 

climbs toward the sun, tumbles, climbs 
and tumbles. He flirts with 

brilliance. His feathers oppose 
his backward somersaults like thumbs 

as his throat opposes the silence 
with lines of raucous skrees like dashes, 

high-pitched cackles and rolls 
he repeats like a creed: 

I believe in noise, 
I believe in the courtship of light, 

I believe in the dance, 
the dance, always the dance.