Sometimes we ride high enough
to see the backs of eagles, bronze
wings tracing steep hillside oats
a glide. Even horses pause
to take notice. You can feel envy
rise beneath you, becoming one
another for a moment—prolonged
instants we crave, yet cannot hold
with minds a grip. But letting go
we float the thermals to Olympus
to bring back lightning, thunder—
with luck a poem and some rain.
drycrikjournal 