Morning, and I walk past the man-made lake
 where the bird gulls for light—I am just birthed
 from Thor’s flash and spite—the bright white thorn of
 knobbed sleep and the throb of light a risk of
 life          I feel important—survived
 a part of the whole force that pulses past
 
 but the dumb sea bird doesn’t stir, just stays
 erect as a piece of the alphabet
 waiting to burn clean its wings.

 Under a blue-cloud-bespeckled sky
 under the blue domed egg
 
 who wouldn’t expect flight?

 How small am I.