Flight Feathers

They left us without wings,
expecting us to swim.
We were not the ocean,
though we were short-feathered.
We belonged to one sky
and not imitation.
We were marked for plumage:
body of a veiled cloud.
It was our blue birthright
to once brush its canvas,
and nest where we could dream.
When it was time to step,
being last, not seeing
where the others had flown,
the wind would not hold me.
I’d dreamed it red and full,
though all I found was sleep.

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