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.

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. 

The pensham bell flower, white-tubed, heartbeats blue from the fairy lights; pendulum drunk on the closer stars.

The crow's call disintegrates the distant radio. All creatures look up — a beaked shadow over the bees sucking on their suns. 

It was like finding a ladybird in a cave; red dome waterfall, black gothic lace,  we traced flashlight shadows fashioned into stone, spread ruby beetle tulle around our legs.

Mint-milk wings, feet on city-heated bricks I'll keep you sacred — we'll pray in green dresses for more places to land. 

The wagtail ascends invisible stairs trees knuckle into airy sea foam  the moon-ghost has come to collect the sweat-tear frustrations grown by the Sun — we are running into the streets.

Throat-silver ore swallowed, the cormorant conjures his coal-elbowed bone cloak to nightmare-scythe  the pond line, satisfied. 

The bull stands steampunk  out of a Blake metaphor — ribcage drip chain, rose-gold-brown bolt roaring purple. Moulded into muscle,  metal becomes smoke-born — we search for an aluminum pulse under hubs, scorched shoulder blades.

Anxiety swarms spirit insects circling my mind. You are solid; paws on my clavicle. They part for you. 

Clouds with their rainbow tongues lick relief over our skin, butterflies flap ceramic clean in high circles. Time hauls open the iron doors of held breath — jaws loosen with the stretch.

Specks of swallows stamp the summer moon; rolled black tracks of news in snow above a world burning.

Metal petrichor, fresh coffee soil. Seedlings thrust thunder-strong into smirking rain — earth's rumbling belly pleads  for more.

Fire-fresh, fangs for toes, the diurnal amber raptor scatters crow confetti, pigeon constellations, with stern, solemn, brow.

The bee loves the tyme-flower, tumbles with it kiss-dipping down. Imagine being so light, you willow with visiting wings.

Teacup-chatter pigeons lifted into flight, a sudden spear — anxiety spiking in a six of spades  twilight card. The reason, regal, sashayed  into a late life sky being; amber under with warnings: this is the evening of the wolf-bird — you have no claim to the moon.