If I were to pluck my feathers,

I wouldn’t be able to fly.

But I want to feel the grass underneath my feet

I hop like a robin on the sidewalk

(away from flight, towards dandelions

sprouting in cracked concrete)

I love the pinpricks of frigid water

that come from diving through clouds,

a reminder that I am alive, capable of pain

a rush of air, resounding echoes of blood pounding,

breath stolen from my lungs,

the cold bite of blue sky and warm slices of sun

that cloak me in the colors of the evening

I am detached from the earth and the light dappling it.

I cast shadows on the ground.

I would pluck every feather if I

could stand on the beach, root myself in sand.

let seaspray batter my skin

and leave fine salt crystals.

could feel the reverberating ring of blood flow

and soreness echoing through my feet

as I plant them with each step

could feel the satisfaction of work done well

in the compact whiplash of vastii recoil

could let the weight of my wings slough off my shoulders

carried instead only by strong legs and supple feet)

could let myself

remain

grounded.