They are feathers to me. I’m not a creature of the sky and a strong gust bears no power over me but sometimes, just sometimes, I wish the wind would pull my sides. Smuggle purpose beneath my bones, brittle bones that break and splinter, the kind you wouldn’t feed your dog. Feathers, to be made of feathers, I’d give up this sure density to be lifted by a subtle sway. Some days, my mimicry is enough to float the mind, and that’s what’s most important. I’ll sail away on a ship of ideas, maybe I’m stuck in an aviary, but I plan to leave the ground. The sky’s the limit for those that have no limits. I’ll dance on the leaves and scrape bark from the trees until I fall from its branched embrace and hit the grass below with a bone-breaking crunch. I haven’t any feathers, but for now I found a dead bird and some glue.