Oh, how alone the little birds must feel right at the edge!
Having to make that salient leap for the first time;
having to let go and then flap and flap incessantly,
until something works out and you begin to soar.
A little bird is nudged out, pushed out by the nest
with strict instructions for every blooming moment
that its unskilled wings can expect to encounter.
But how can unskilled wings survive when
in their eyes something is getting closer and closer?
Oh, the pain that must well up and these times
of confusion! Even beauty is cloaked in it.
How can Splat! Splat! Splat! occur?
When the morning sun suggests otherwise.
Seán O Muiríosa
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-the-edge-3/
