What does it mean to move; to be moved?
Where do we come from?
But where does that come from?
To be made up of atoms...beams of light and old scars.
To be made up. Of a million pieces.
Heart jumps at that first tremor of thunder, why is that?
A familiar resonance, a familial rhythm.
Reaching out beat for beat beyond this living cage.
Peregrine. Flexing it’s wings. The heart is.
Songbird, scavenger.
Predator or prey?
Nightingale and vulture.
She does not want to live here
(these bars between wings and sky).
Not on the sleeve or in the memory.
Painted red in warning.
Wearing her sharp beak, sharp eyes, sharp claws.
Strong enough for the storms around you, within you.
And the ones that rage because of you.
Thunder bellows out that bird song, heart bird sings it back.
© Elizabeth McLaughlin
