When birds dream
it is of walking.

In their dreams
in a meadow or a forest or a city
          (ice floes burlap of desert carefully tilled fields lined with stones)
          (but never never the sea)
they put one foot in front of the other
for miles.

This lasts all night
and is always exquisite
for there is so much detail
they've never seen.

Awake their breasts pump like bloody hearts
as they pummel their feathery selves into air.
So plain and vast the world seems!

The night’s pleasure
shapes their imagined souls
as an upright creature
whose every step proportions the earth
in its ideal measure
for progress
and contemplation.

It dwells
not in atmosphere not in air
          (never never in the sea)
but on earth where birds' souls
          (they imagine)
are on two long legs
released.