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until she was seven years of age maris had leaftumbled
through the temperate forests of childhood.
wingless, as most eaglebeings are as hatchlings.
never had she conducted the train of thought
that she was not the lookalike of her siblings
beginning to break the canopy,
cloverframed and eagle-winged
tasting candyfloss cirrus.
not until the day that marked her seventh year,
when an eaglebeing’s wings begin to sprout.
while the clover uprooted
snapping fishbone roots and stolen by wild winds,
maris knew from that day she was forever destined
to be wrapped in thread
and chained to the spiderweb of the earth.
she gazed at her reflection in a murky roadside puddle,
pineneedle eyes piercing
through the iridescent surface.
protruding from her shoulderflaps
were tufted wingthings,
resembling the fins of a salmon more than an eaglebeing’s.
like a freshsprouted weed
amidst tidytrimmed lawngrass.
the feeble things
couldn't lift maris’ sequoiabody
out of the web.
maris staggered away in defeat.
the roadside puddle trembled
as a shed feather
falls
like a teardrop caressing the oilslick.
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