Neck arched, head to the Heavens,

eyes to the sky,

arms outstretched,

ready to fly,

The rattle that had been the death of the last breath climbing


Up the sturdy thighs,

Through the curve of the pelvis,

Rolling thunder.

The small of her back,

Up a slightly crooked spine,

So divine,

Tingling in between,

Her shoulder blades,

Out to the tips of her wings,

Round trip into her breastbone,

Gathering the speed of sound

In her throat,

A pure note

The rapture of the strong


Life everlasting

Never to falter

Never to fail


Set sail

Across the moonglow

And everything

They think they know,

Is nothing,

In the wake of the sound

Of the song.


Teri Skultety