Midnight Sun

 

When the ancient, throaty songs

of sandhill cranes 

rattle, 

your longings left perched, gaze skyward —

stirred in clavicular curves

of dust.

 

In crossing that span of crane

and tundra

your rib cage cracks open, catches fire among

willow and rock like the 

cottongrass,

each head a bright cloud, aflame.

 

Within their call you hear

that truly,

your heart is held here, 

balanced by hollow bones and

a sun that never sets but 

rolls,

a fiery kiss at the horizon, 

echoing the light that binds us —

and you know suddenly, deep within your own

feathered soul,

that we use the illusion of darkness

as an anchor.