Why I Fly

Why I Fly

Why does it matter where I fly,
If I never wonder why?

Elephant of Doom stomps through the grounds.
They haven’t seen such a sight in their lifetime—
can there be a reason found?

Godly and provoking,
a village now stuck choking,
round and round men croaking…
blood forever soaking.

I vanish in a flash
and direct my flight somewhere else.

Do I wonder why,
if I fly, fly, fly?

I sit upon a mountaintop,
waiting for the trumpets of men
to sound their last lingering note — and then stop.

I count: one, two, three, go!

I watch thousands of men charge,
spears in hand.

Hours pass by, and I can’t understand.

The gutting and wrenching,
the screaming, the clenching —
a frenzy for a life worth catching.

I wonder why,
and fly, fly fly.

I return to the village, curious as I am.
Burnt down in the rampage of an animal,
I decide there’s nothing left.

I scan the hot, humid savannah:
thick, tall grass; giraffes chewing on leaves.

Far beyond the ashes,
in a wide, open expanse of land,
I perceive a group of hunters.

They strike down a family of elephants —
even the infant falls.

I carry the wounded infant
on the back of my wings,
until I can no longer hold him.

I lay him down on the peak of the mountain
and teach him to dance through the fire,
sing over the thunder of summer rain,
and fight as if he will never fight again.

When he is grown and wiser,
I return him to the savannah —
the same place where I witnessed his blight.

I fly and sit nearby, watching, for now I know why.