Time

Time flies on the back
Of a bird who sings too well,
Its mind on its wings
As it tries to fly on feathers alone.

Long ago, it was shown the way
To race the sunset, the sunrise
By drinking trickling splashes
As the sun spilled its ripest wares.

Thus, it tasted the end of the sky,
The pinched beginning
When it flew the other way.
But why go to and fro
If they tasted just the same?