The baby black swift is born behind a waterfall.
It never leaves its nest until one autumn day
it leaves the damp familiar and starts to fly.
Though it has never flown before, it will not land
until it reaches Brazil, thousands of miles away.
There is, perhaps, a wing inside forgiveness.
Just because it has never flown before,
just because it’s never seen beyond the watery veil
does not mean that it won’t instantly learn
what it can do.
Like the baby black swift, it has no idea
what it’s flying toward. It only knows
that it must fly and not stop until it is time to stop.
It sounds so miraculous, so nearly impossible.
It is not a matter of courage. It is simply
what rises up to be done, the urge to follow
some inaudible call that says now, now.