Jump, Fly

I don’t have much time
so I’ll make this as short
as possible:

A man comes to a cliff’s edge.
In his chest lives a hawk
or a seagull, something
made of wings that urges,
Jump. Fly.

He doesn’t jump.
He doesn’t fly.
He knows, like every other man
who approaches this cliff knows,
that the fall will kill him.

This sense of mortality
grows as he ages:

One day he is unable to
cross the street
and doesn’t find
that unusual.