Today's poem is by J. P. Dancing Bear

                Invent the words you long to hear. Speak them.
                Sooner or later, they'll come back to you.

                                                —D.A. Powell

At dawn, we let our hybrids fly free of their cages and watched
them disappear into the twilight.

And like the old adage about love and setting something loose, we waited
the long seasons for their return, believing we had built them

to withstand migrations across continents, from pole
to pole—driven by unseen magnetism and inner compasses.

Like any parent or creator, worry and conjecture would get the best
of our minds, but somewhere faith crept back through our shadows

rose in us a new day of prayer. Sure all the other ecosystems
and niches had been fine, the need for a new species was

not an obvious one—Nature does more than abhor
vacuums. And after we had resolved ourselves to failure,

had finally seen hope disappear on the horizon, they came back
to us, changed by weather and terrain, different than we knew them.

Strange chirps and songs. Did we truly invent anything
that hadn't already dreamt of air within its feathers?

Copyright © 2015 J. P. Dancing Bear All rights reserved
from Crazyhorse
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission

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