…And then the mother dances through the night
Doubling and looping, soaring, somersaulting—
Her baby hangs on underneath.
All night, in happiness, she hunts and flies.
Her high sharp cries
Like shining needlepoints of sound
Go out into the night and, echoing back,
Tell her what they have touched.
She hears how far it is, how big it is,
Which way it’s going:
She lives by hearing.
More Poetry Friday posts: Wild Rose Reader
I Am From: Because Loni Asked So Sweetly
Then Again, Perhaps She’d Be Offended by that “Cowrin, Tim’rous” Business
Possibly my best idea ever
Poetry Good Friday: Donne, Of Course
“The Fairy Tales of Science”