I am a restless bird, grounded by a broken wing
unable to launch off into the sky.
The wing will be healed in oh, a year,
but the itch to fly keeps scratching,
anxious, a tremble in my feathers.
Whether it be the yellow cabs
of the Big Apple, the steep sidewalks
of the home of the Space Needle,
it takes that step
off the ground and into the clouds,
watching the sun set behind me,
closing a chapter.
Droplets may splatter my beak
or storms swoop me toward
another spot, but nevertheless
I will be gone, pursuing the high
life I have always imagined.
For now I wait. I wait to heal.
I wait to finish my work here.
But after that is done,
it is all sky for me.
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