Airborne
by Andrew Bailey
[ poetry - december 07 ]
Unfledge. I have worn these harnesses
so long their absence trickles
as cold water down my shoulders.
The air thrums a million wingbeats
a minute, spinning air to wind,
the damp whipped to peaks of cloud.
His waxy feathers floating.
No, not absence, but the presence
of air shaped in shapes of him.
