In a parallel existence, we are pure-white
beings, flying abreast, tips of wings
meet ever so slightly.
Midflight, I glimpse your scar;
the sweet pink, the stitched
skin that must have settled by now.
And we glide over
valleys and crags, meadows
carpeted green, dotted by crisp
lakes and red-roofed farms.
I have my scars too—carried
in the pocket of my breast
bone; kept warm under the feathers.
Riding a gale, or the golden breeze,
heading onward—always onward—we
are angels nonetheless.
No: angels for our scars.
Spreading wide wings, we swoop
down for the night; a hidden branch to nestle
close, head against shoulder.
The air soon softens into rhythmic tunes:
serenading crickets, courting bullfrogs,
the occasional hoot of an owl.
And we fall asleep to the sounds.