Perhaps you haven't met my dear friend Icarus?

Treetops are not so high

Nor I so low

That I don't instinctively know

How it would be to fly

Through gaps that the wind makes, when

The leaves arouse

And there is a lifting of the boughs,

That settle and lift again.

Whatever my kind may be,

It is not absurd

To confuse myself with a bird

For the space of a reverie:

My species never flew,

But I somehow know

It is something that long ago

I almost adapted to

- Richard Wilbur -