I have wings now and then, but maybe not today.
They're sensitive to glances,
quick to retreat into my bones and shiver me breathless, ruffle me wordless,
leaving me to fight gravity on my own.
They shine with a rich silver sheen
that threatens and beckons at the same time.
Fixed with fatal angles,
my feathers can end your life, or make it worth living.
I can be freed of the ground, of the pull that never lessens,
now and then, but maybe not today.