Feathered wings beyond the open door. They too were young once.  A runway for outstretched legs pressing forth. Outbound soar the souls! Hark flight – they dress in dreams, shoulder the world young – carry life full and in your final hour softly cradle death. Nightime carries their immature dreams and houses their fears, overhanging earth’s songs and cries. The passing of city and pasture. Morning, at the windows they turn their heads, faces pressed to thin glass before mother’s call to supper. Innocence is the glue joining feathers. Trust, then the onslaught of energy and direction.

We journey, and with time leaping forward we all step into growing bodies, aging bodies, dying bodies. Flight seamlessly hurries in and out of life.  It’s okay.