the witch's gloves

We dive in the wild wind, rise up in an applause. I catch the tip of a wing on a wave and send a cry singing over the sea curled in mist to an old man stooped in a brown room. He feels every wing beat.

I never thought her beauty could bring all this. Beauty like a city flooded with light. Our songs echo into the night. I taste salt in my mouth, and the wind’s ache in all my body. When we rest the wind tatters our feathers. Only when I sleep, my head is curled into my back. In the thunderdark, the rise and slap of the waves.

The old man opens a tinderbox, strikes a match, and lights a spark.