I watch the birds
gliding through the blue
in and out of clouds
as if threading a needle.

They sail and soar,
white wings on blue sky,
riding the wind
in all their glory.

The formation flaps
as if it were one
led by the airborne point
of the triangle.

Their feathery wings
are strong but kind
cutting through the sky
like a knife.

When my hands touch the piano
I am the bird
gliding and twirling
through my very own clouds.

I finally see
from a bird’s eye view,
a new perspective,
a rising new height.

And once I get started
I’m soaring away,
with a spiraling speed
I’ve never experienced.

When I pull them away,
the formation is frozen
mid-flight birds are silenced
from their lively song.

The sky’s the limit,
the piano’s my sky.
My hands are the birds
so watch as they fly.