I curl up in our nest—
blankets, cedar, branches, and twigs.

Feather-pillows and trinkets:
sea shells, pearly things,
spirit-orbs checking in.

Flower petals hide in the crevices of our huddle.

I settle in for the night,
a feathered woman
turned delicate egg,
speckled in mystery
and circled by the memory of chalk.

The dust of the day shaken off,
my feet no longer frantic,
no longer dancing their rhythm to the day’s drum.

Washed in obsidian night,
I fly in my dreams to You—always.

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