Literary Vegan

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.