some wings aren’t feathers, but leaves instead.
some wings drink from roots, not three toes.
some wings hold hands, finger limb to limb,
smiling into the taste behind your lips.
some wings beckon the wind to themselves
although the sentiment is mutual.
some wings remember your face, you who
swam in their autumn change of grace.
did you thirst for their brittle scattering
tresses at your feet? they do notice that.
how our feet land in the sky does matter,
how your voice takes theirs inside.
some wings hold very still as earth
soars on past their steadfast gaze.
leaves are kin when water is blood.
world keeps listening and flying in.
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