Midnight Sun
When the ancient, throaty songs
of sandhill cranes
rattle,
your longings left perched, gaze skyward —
stirred in clavicular curves
of dust.
In crossing that span of crane
and tundra
your rib cage cracks open, catches fire among
willow and rock like the
cottongrass,
each head a bright cloud, aflame.
Within their call you hear
that truly,
your heart is held here,
balanced by hollow bones and
a sun that never sets but
rolls,
a fiery kiss at the horizon,
echoing the light that binds us —
and you know suddenly, deep within your own
feathered soul,
that we use the illusion of darkness
as an anchor.
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