For Malcolm, Thinking of Our Sons

 Breast and shoulder to the wind,
 they strut the narrow ledges
 in plumage now too long
 for comfort here, launch,
 return, each time more briefly. 
 Soon the moon will call them
 away across the mountains.  In spring
 we'll sip wine, watch the whitecaps
 on the bay, imagine we hear
 their wings returning.