There are two of them. They slumber in their nest. Lanky limbs intertwine despite the African heat and their breathing mirrors the season’s kiss.
The one is soft, infant-like, with large pokey eyes and a pointed snout. Her hair flaps around her, unveiling pink ears and a wishbone scar. In her limbo, she seems aware of the wilderness around their lee, startling ever so often to the cicada’s creak. Her breathing quickens as she flies in her mind from things unknown to me.
The other is untethered. Muddy skin is painted atop a canyon stature. A rib cage houses a big heart. His wings twitch in reflex to dreams, lips puckering, mumbling the day’s happenings.
Feathers frame a smooth jaw that takes shape into an Adam’s apple.
In their tangled sighs, the dark is lost on them. The night has grown still, and the other predators move through the black. The female loses sleep and stares above.
“I wish I were a bird,” she whispers into the raven sky.
Perched, I sink deeper into my leaves, for soon morning will wake and I will sing.
So I close my eyes, and dream of what it would be like to be a human.