Fingertips to Her Shoulders Like Wings in Her Sleep

She is a bird perched on this moment, holding tight to the splintering branch of the past even while the warm chinook of now swirls up from the canyon whispering promises to her flight feathers, visions of vistas that shudder up through the tunnels in her hollow bones. The hurricane of her hair twists in the wind as she stretches, inches closer to dreams of silence deeper than the abyss of midnight sheets. There is no cage that can hold her, no rope that can bind her, no dead story that can stand before her when she decides

to fly.

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat