My home is the sky where I fly freely.
Where Mother pulls the aba off my back
and Father leads the way while we soar.
Where Sister’s wings are soft and vibrant
and we chitter and chatter and twitter
until Mother and Father wish us flown away
to chitter and chatter and twitter elsewhere.
On the best of days, father soars low and
we all ride his slipstream, easily and aimlessly
as we twirl and dance and soar and I,
I feel free for the first time in a long time.
Familiar arms hold me safe while I sleep
and when morning comes my wings spread wide,
and gravity cannot touch me here.