I find this poem fascinating. The final two lines bear much pondering.
The Art of Flight
What wings accumulate is not air
but space, an exemplar
of restraint defied. I listen
and hear feathers
ruffling in the shadows,
a vibration that swells
until it becomes flight or
regret, the retrieval of our
bodies from this dream of ascent.
The art of flight is one of
disturbance, of angles and lift
and touching what can’t be seen.
What we hold carries no meaning.
The beauty lies in the gathering.
Simon's still stanza 