Wing-tales
in the sky, the air,
the surface of water
undulated by the wind,
ridges rippling
in conversation, an unknown
tongue
that rushes and exults
in a frenzied waltz
across sentience...
I forget how to be...
in all the white noise
we've unlearned
how to comprehend
the language of feathers,
hours becoming crusty
with idle, incessant blur,
but I want to remember,
I want to believe,
and I reach for it now,
following the wind
following the wings.
— Anna S. © 2026
















