Plover

…And if the sky seems to sing,
the clouds may have slept with melodies,
I feel them under my wings.

The air has taken paths
of least resistance, breaths
are sustenance for woodwinds, now,

My blood is song, my heart
goes out to you with every
little feather in the overdrive.

There’s fire under my shoulders, now,
and whirlwinds freshly made;
such delicate calamities.

Not one have lurked but claws
with branches’ dances stumped
and every step controlled.

The sky must stay the same:
I prayed for morning light,
and morning I became.

— A. P.

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