A Boy With Wings

Everyday at dusk

they’d flock together.

Running hands through plumage,

grooming the down

of day-old feathers,

hanging only by a thread.

Wings so vibrant of color,

that some of them shimmered.

Oiled and glossy.

Only recently have molted,

for the first time,

a child hid

under the wings of another.

Folding their own

snug on their back.

Wings shaded a color

so much darker than before.

Plumage absorbed the light.

Feathers captured the stars.