Curls of torrent winds lift her feathered wings,

Up

Up

Up

She goes.

Spinning like that on threads of air,

She is a beast,

Commanding the clouds beneath her grace,

She was never really meant to fly,

Her bones too paper thin and fragile to bear the harshness of the elements,

But for a moment, she becomes as light as the clouds themselves,

As weightless as air and smoke,

Though there might be a day she will fail to fly,

A day she might plummet to the earth,

For now she is boundless,

And it seems,

That day has yet to come.