So this one is called "Archaeopteryx".
Above the lawn, from a high garden wall,
they dive in staggered succession--
long gray coats, hoods like Benedictine monks,
the row so long I cannot see to the last of them.
A ceremony?
A rehearsal for a ceremony?
Maybe someone directs them.
Even from that height, their coats flare open with the fall.
The updraft along their cheeks catches the inside
of their hoods, letting them feel the first hint of loft
as they dive--
or not dive, but fall with purpose--
or if not purpose, intent--
or if not intent, release--
or if not release, then surrender.
What did I ever have to surrender-- surrender
to, or surrender from?
They fall so fully I can only guess
there must be, at the end of the fall, a pool and not
this stone arcade where I stand between these walls.
Nothing in their fall impedes them--
not regret or expectation-- not even curiosity.
They fall the way M walks--
in her gait, sorrow indistinguishable from joy.