Last night,
I dreamt of birdsong filtering
through branching bowers –
aerial overtures of cascading melody.

I dreamt of flying on angel’s wings,
sidestepping thunderclouds
to pass beyond the storm.

Gently, the blur of celestial wings
beat a retreat at dawn’s light.
My eyelids fluttered.

In the languid morning
I found my wings had shed,
but the birds, oh, how the birds
were singing.

Later that day
I flew on whirring wheels,
my feet spinning in circles
as I whistled along,
smiling in the sunshine
of another day’s cycle,
before dusk shadowed my journey
along the city’s empty streets.