Birdie

 

                The air was thick with honey and dew.
                The dove flew through the viscous night like a secret, both holding the tail of the wind. The dove flew over cities and over forests, over lights and over spiders, at the very top of everything. The sky bled purple and the stars cried light all over, tears not in this the result but the object. She flew over pathways and highways, gliding like a ghost over the skyline.
                Everything was at peace. Even the trees were sleeping, and the dove had the world to herself. The night was young and foolish and the dove was wise enough to take advantage.
                There were no birds in this part of the country, only scenery. The city would light up like a star or a galaxy even, and the sky shone like a gemstone.
                She opened her wings and sailed on an updraft into the atmosphere. Her wings had once started to freeze in this sky. This was the real sky, the clouds looked farther down than the ground on a commercial flight. Only the light seemed real at this altitude.

                The purity of it was shocking. Light was light and clouds were clouds and not-so-sure was not-so-sure.

                Her thoughts began to run amok. She thought about a mouse from a dream she had recently. Not really a mouse, a young man, a young man in the dream.
                It had been an interesting dream.
                The sky was growing bright pink. It layered with blue and purple and stars and the atmosphere. Rays of sun sliced the dark as the world’s eyes began to open.
                And still she flew and flew and flew, never looking back.

                She flies into the sun.