You’re metal body; I am bone.
Seven directions I know from home.
So I am seated, wingspan five,
white lines the tracks we ride.
Sometimes waking, hillcrest high,
to the scenery of the sky.
When it darkens, light subsides;
flocks of migrators slide by.
But I’m still sleeping deep inside your interior
while the distrance you stride.
Sometimes I wonder where I’m going
seven directions from home.