The Silence Between Their Wings

They arrive like fragments of a dream,

feathers dipped in sunlit amber,

darting between the unseen threads

that bind the air in trembling light.

Each flicker, a brushstroke of motion,

a hymn too quick for mortal ears.

I reach—

not to hold, but to understand,

to trace the space they leave behind,

where stillness bends but does not break,

where time exhales and folds itself

into the hush of beating wings.

But the air is fickle, ever turning,

and flight was never meant for hands.

I watch them vanish, weightless ghosts,

leaving only a breath of color,

and a longing that never lands.