The rodent poised on a buttress on the south nave of the National Cathedral didn’t go where I expected—but that, I suppose, is the point.
You say: “No mouse was meant to fly.”
I woke with wings, so why
Should I not try
To streak and swoop from roof to peak,
Refining my technique?
Perhaps next week,
You’ll dwindle as I soar aloft,
You sorry souls who scoffed,
And, landing soft
In straunge strondes, I alight
A pilgrim benedight;
But then, by night,
The leatherwings my roost surround
With prophecies profound;
Without a sound
They flap from crags and belfries cold
A bat-king to behold.
So would you scold
A faulty mouse whom Fortune spurned,
Whose rote she left unturned?
For I have learned
A larger life demands a leap.
When all the world’s asleep,
From spiry steep
I’ll wing where mice may safely twitch:
Moel Hebog will bewitch,
And Lovćen’s rich,
And Eldfell smolders, bare and bleak—
Perhaps a perfect peak
Where all who squeak
May lightly laze, like long-shed sorrow:
(For all the entries in this series, hit the “looking up” tag.)