Wings

Wings fascinate me.

Fluttering wings;
the powder puff touch on whipped cream air,
gentle as a cloud, palm-whimpering,
and sniffing shyly at an ice cream daughter.

Beating wings;
black and furry, an enormous whirl-pooling bellowing furious
cloudburst of wings,
chastising, condemning, casting a dark shadow,
zooming in a sudden rush
to splatter against the walls of heaven.

Soaring wings;
swooping and swimming in a blue-green blended sky,
swirling feathers in a whirlpool of colors,
an artist and a painter,
a ballerina of blue, a solitary player
on a miscellaneous stage.

Lazy wings;
a caw-call in the heat of the early evening,
a slapping of arms in nonchalance
against a sleek body,
punctuating the heat with a lone call,
and the parched breath meeting of wing and side.

Hollow love song.