I put my foot down on the path, on the dry clay, shaped with the hooves and paws and shoes that have walked here before I did. I am not attentive to the place, I simply take a step. My eyes are on the pine trees, and the hardwood forest beyond, my face is raised to the sky with its rolling breeze and gentle sunlight. I am not watching my feet.
But then you rise up from the ground, flashing your lilac blue wings before me and I am captivated.
You flutter, an uneven arc of pure grace.
I stand, still, breathless, watching you skim the blades of grass beside the path. I am alive, seeing you.
And then you alight, on the dry clay shaped by those that have walked here before me. And you close your wings.
I cannot see you any longer, the arresting blue of your wings folded against itself, out of sight. I cannot see you any longer, for the underside of your wings is the color of dry clay, with hills and vales that resemble the marks on the ground.
You do not move anew.
Nor do I, waiting to see again the iridescent magnificence. But there is only the yellow clay.
Did you slip away? Were you a dream of exceptional distinction?
The arresting blue of your wings is folded against itself and all I see is more clay.