As you believe I do. I’m surrounded by
winged things that clasp the wood, drawn to the candle, hot against the flame.
I keep nightly company with silver tipped scurries, soft whisps of flight
against my ear, paper wings that fold and tuck neatly behind the back like my
hands that grasp each other in solemnity. Like the thoughts I have when
drifting, my nocturnal visitors are light but carry an under hue of something
deeper, richer, something we try to dig. Velvet soil running through a cupped
palm; perched in the corner watches with eight diamond eyes, grins because she
knows I know and I’m not afraid. I welcome the flutter. I wake and sweep the
remnants from the cracks in the floorboards. Against the blonde wood you are
incandescent and I mourn for the loss of spark that you once held; right here
tucked beneath the faintest curve of a silver veined wind that runs like the
river from the base of you to the outstretched fan of your flight. These are
the beings that weave and watch and fly…
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