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Through countless days aloft,
a flit.
A fleet dancing of raucous grace.
The lulled afternoons embracing warm,
willowing, lofted lace.
As billowing breezes move about,
the leaves
themselves—once havens—
act as walled gates
to batter against.
Time allows the
interactions to become,
while fruitful,
much more fretful.
Frantic flutters.
Beaten
wings
against more than
air.
Ever lurking
animals. All
potential predators.
The wings left marked,
marred,
ajar
before a lift off
not so easily fluttered.
Wear and tears
make tatters the new fetters.
Torn yet beaten
are the painted cloaks.
And so it still flies.
