Before the calling of horses
and the driftwood sink,
I had a sky name,
green feathered like the tops of trees.
In my home-can-see
I watched the world awaken
as the shadows lapped up one another
and the branches took form below me.
I opened wings in front of sun
to see myself in shadow
all feathered plume of grace
away from ground and safe
from scurry things around.
That was before cracked crab hissed the fire,
when I was in no hurry for winter.
Even so it came,
for I could see past the dune grass
where there was a dark thing
that slowly stumbled into keep-safe
and broke me, but not for long.
A wing is a fragile thing, yet strong.
Memory slants the sky that way sometimes
and I can see back before begun,
when Wing was a song that I had sung;
then I was a curved line down she looked
with the color of new wood song,
my toes arrows that took me fast
into the peat slipped cool familiar.
It didn't matter the perfect words,
all too cumbersome to worry my song come day,
but in the dark starry cool covered sands of time
I can whisper something forgotten
and Wing comes out to play.