For Real

Fear of presence

is due

to what doesn’t occur

in occupied space:

a fox, curious 

but feral,

a chitin bark

ferried by scarlet wings,

an acapella

shrilled by a burrowing owl 

to warn its hatch, 

fresh rust 

etching the chain

during my bicycle ride.

It’s why 

I stop hearing

human noise

when screeching parrots flock

from vineyard to sky, 

my spirits rise

to join them. 
My fear dissolves.

I fly for real.