Children of Air

This poem is about BASE jumping or anyone who has felt the tinge of thrill and fear in the arms of gravity.

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Steel-blue waters bake in the sun,
where rivers of heat stretch out in curves,
revealing ghosts of wind walking out on cliffs,
shaking the precarious ministers of rocky cleft,
the prickly leafed tree,
the garnish of spiked grass,
the woody krumholtz with spider web branches.

Angels who are cast from heaven,
where land remains festooned along a mortal vein,
discover men not rooted to the land.
Earth is not their rapture nor their church of God,
they are divinities of the breaking moment,
they are creatures of the quiescent rush,
they are corporeal knights of our sleeping death.

As winged birds, they are joined in space,
those children of air jousted into gravity's clutch.