Literary Vegan

He's out at height— the red kite,  talons unchangeable. But at that altitude, poets could rename him; a bat-thorn black tattoo on cloud-bonded skin, feathers long gone, wyvern.

The wind isn't speaking today. Clouds have patched-up the sky. It is not a day of finding-out things. But it is the day  a single sparrow took up the space  of the no-birds, when I felt one brush of sunlight on my neck and it felt Spring-kind from a long time ago. And I wrote letters into tomorrow's hands; empty is an invite  to place a beautiful word facing outwards. 

Chocolate powder mountains,  heaped — I could kick into the clouds. Yet sky sugar tastes slow — impatience eats miracles.

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?