Under the heave of clouds,
as if wings were not wings
but a paintbrush loaded with water;
a pelican takes its time
washing the sky
in meditative descent,
and seems to never truly land.
Now, with a dip of her prehistoric head —
swallowed into a secret
the skin of water —
river ripples echo
in my teacup. Steeping minerals;
a bitter ferment from the deepest
land that hands cannot reach.
The root of legends. And in that moment,
this massive earth finds a place for me.
A melted ghost of myself comes back,
staring down and daring me once
again to release my breath.