as hatchlings: blind,
featherless, pink—
and yes, equipped
with the twin
wings of hopefulness
and grief. Only,
we don't know how
to harness them them yet.
For now, we are young,
and the dead of course
are other ages.
At the windows,
by their ledges,
on some precipice
we wait, tasting
the upraising breeze
on our faces;
but the sky is
much colder than we
can conceive,
and the sun, so much
farther away
than we think.
