Instinct says plants grow in this place. You flap your winds and enter a steady glide. The void opens from black to welcome a companion white, a reserved sun rise in a place without sun. There one is! a delicous fruit tree. The fruit was made just for you and your bird body. Instinct says a crow folk ryme:

Space is a discrase and ground is misplaced
best be erased or make hast for world worth mattering
and matter so satifying and even graitfying
Its fruit! fruit for the birds! Growing from a fruit tree.
I promice you fruit tree Ill put the seeds somewhere absolutly

Birds don't need poetic structures because they can fly and generally don't care about such things.