there is no caging wings of light that rise crimson bright to fly the gilded river until first light cools on their wings and they land wings outstretched while their feet taste the earth anew.
of course they would come holding bits of night in dark shadows under white wings that whisper low along the road sighing across the rooftops. they will find the moon before it sets. beyond the hilled horizon where it has already plunged orange and silent behind the trees, they will find the moon beyond these…
i nearly forgot up there on the hill wind blustered and sun drunk on mist breath and endless ocean, nearly forgot my solidity of bone and lack of wing. nearly remembered flight.