Sparrows bank the sun — a swirl-nest descent of song and embers; pebble-puff chests mass on darkening green fingers. They call their sand sisters and brothers, each mouth smothering gold; so wonderfully loud as the dark downs — these raucous stars in skeleton-strong hands.
I swim above my phantom in salt water, but I'm the weightless one and above me, doves and dragonflies hum blue choosing the direction of life with their wings. I know things — no more suspended place meet me at the rustling leaves with all the movement of forwards and lightness of answer.
Anxiety settles, like silt, back underneath my skeleton retreating from the sphinx on my sternum. Where in the forests and farms did you learn that, predator?
Seaweed and salt, rotting skin, stone petrichor — all is open, worn sand on the wind met with fire, sharp magic missing muscle. Coastal bones fly wildflower low, feathers are lost but the sea keeps teal and lightening for whoever roams red among the coves.