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Geoff Oelsner » First Ways of Flight

I found a wakened way
to fly my slightest dreams
across the prairie, wireless,
tree to tree. Then some trees
splintered into fence posts
in my dreams, and later
became phone poles. Barbed wire
and taut black talk-lines
sliced my flight. They stung
and nettled my dream-body,
just as they overhung and netted
this country. Encroaching suburbs
sometimes held me from
full span. Clenched fists
of smoke from factories;
dense inner cities pulled
on me. Yet I was willingly
drawn down to certain altars,
shrines, archways, parks,
side roads, homes, and human
gatherings where primal silence
reasserts itself. Then I could begin
to glide once more on amber
waves of light East-West
above the land. My being
sought sanctuary in mountains
and rivers, at estuaries of Spirit.
I rested in slow-breathing meadows
far from men. Night after night,
God moved me in vision-flight
beyond a life I had thought mine,
on through the gray where worlds meet,
into a country where all colors
are sacred and alive.