“…Anger and tenderness: my selves.
And now I can believe they breathe in me
as angels, not polarities…”

~ Adrienne Rich, Excerpt from “Integrity”

And so, waning, the snow moon fell into the morning blue and wavy lagoon.

Near the fishing birds.

Near me where I walked brightly and quietly in the sun so as not to disturb their morning meal.

Nearby, I knelt, I found a bird, not made of bird, but made into driftwood shape of bird, a driftbird made by tide and sticks and luck and accident and a desire to be: bird.

Light seeks the seaweed on the sand, it all leaks gold and the lagoon holds the gold, keeps the gold, I walk there, toward the bridge, over all the broken trees to be in the gold.

Angels have spines. Spines are where their wings, if they have such things, attach.

One wing is fused by anger and the other is tender and fused to spine and and flap flap flap the wings make a lift into flight and far-sight.