I long to be aloft like the Common Swift,

a small-footed bird, awkward on land and vulnerable,

but able to float for ten continuous months

in a sky of amniotic fluid.

in summer it touches earth

to mate in Scandinavia, building nests in Norway,

raising its chicks in Northern angles of light.

but migration is winter above Africa,

where, forever in flight, it feeds

on aerial plankton of aphids and alates,

floating above the sub-Saharan jungle

where black-backed jackals and venomous boomslangs

wait at a diner in the Congo

with forks and knives.

I live all year on the ground, among temptation snakes

and hungry dogs, plodding on hominid feet,

holding my heavy head anchored by useless thoughts

and scientific vocabulary.

I would trade all the contemplation

for a set of wings, let free all the strings

and sleep soaring in heaven.

surely God would bless me sooner

if my feet were clean.