Near myth

A scent of scorched feathers.

Skullgrey morn, do you hide,

as if in cloud covered shame.

Do not grieve, you can be no less

than you are:

brilliant, fierce, hot.

See how many-legged silk-spinners darn

and weave a frame for flight.

Unbidden gifts of down, quill and tuft

breeze gathered

from all who wheel and soar aloft,

settle, mesh Angel wings,

soft as the breath of God,

strong as will,

to rise and greet you
once again:

day.