they’re two parts
moon, i think, a drink of
shimmered scale and waxing fire.
where do their wings come from?
starling murmur? darling’d breeze?
the breath of trees and song that comes
from long stray veins
of talon’d silence.
we query not
their gator teeth,
the brief singed scent
For Misky’s twiglet this week. Come play.