The Horned Lark Poem by Frank Avon

I saw him for only a moment,
dark against the beclouded sky.

It's larger than a sparrow,
but striped sorta like one,
with a blue crescent on its breast,

the only true lark
native to the New World.
It nests on the ground
as early as February.

It sways in flight,
a soft simple tingle.

Of course, he was a myth
or a miracle,

like those tongues of fire,
like those arrows of desire.

Watch out, watch out.
I'm at the very top of the ladder -
the very last rung.

No sinew, or adrenalin,
only air
is all there is

there.