In their neck of the woods, the tigers fly
To the beach of a puddle to feed on the remains
Of the day, while the king reigns for one
Moment over thousands and thousands of miles.
They run up trees when the sun runs down,
And the green recedes as the moon opens
Its eyes, so the stalkers may see scales and wings.
Long legs, fuzzy eyes and coiled mouths
Speak nothing truer and bigger than broadcast
Noise. When the white blanket tucks them in,
They punctuate their silent glory in woody crevices
Too deep for people to fathom. The grief-shrouded
Join the grammarians, and the less learned
Disappear into sleeping bags and custom-
Fitted suits; the fire-starter misses them in broad
Daylight, and as bad as it looks, as hard
As it is knowing not all flights will depart,
Spring will bounce with parties of drinkers
At blossoming cups, drinkers like friends, foes
And lovers, except they are content to bug
Out, to be so small among these natural,
Endless giants, to blow in the heavy wind
And remain simple, flying beings.


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