Flight Poem by S.M. Kozubek

When I leave,
gather my dust
and scatter it
on the sooty wings
of a scrawny pigeon
that has pecked in
the city's ashcans and muck,
yet thinking itself a peregrine,
the fastest of all creatures,
has also glided
in the splendor of sun,
diving downward,
speck of shooting star.

I too shall fly
above the thunderheads
laughing in the ether
of the moon and sun
before
plummeting
peacefully again
at rest.