eighty on ninety four
your cracking tar is the fragile branch
for my timid little claws to inch out on
do you sway so easily?
do the whistling winds bend your western reach?
or will weighty water drips tip your
end into an early earthen bed?
no, you grow and flow towards the east
a sense of the sun's subtle warmth
a blooming expansion outward
eighty on ninety
little feathered wings in a whirling flurry
do they ever tire?
where do i land?