This Thing About Wings

There’s something about wings

that makes me wish I had them.

Defying gravity to feel the sky

without having to carry passengers

complaining about the view

is a bit of magic I’d like to own.

Oh, the pleasure of being a bird to drop

an exclamation point on a gossipy neighbor

who muddies the Zen of a sunny Tuesday

would be a mulberry mission of delight.

If a wish was a feather, I’d wish to be a robin.

I could arrive to announce winter has been

shown the door and gray landscape must

surrender to the reign of wildflowers.

Wait! Perhaps I should wish to be a crow,

silence my introvert, join a flock, be inquisitive,

problem solve with a wink of mischievous,

write my opinions in feather quills and inky throat.

Yes, there’s something, endless somethings

about wings that has me yearning to not feel

the weight of finding my way through

the hypercritical maze of selfish humans.

The Sound of Ink