by Sara Graves
How can you, with gladness? he asked, for he had wings. Fingerlings of cloud to carry him, aloft, to know what he would. But I was bound by walls and cliffs, and the way the road wound. I watched him weave in and out of view, in the thin sliver of sky above my sight. How can you, with gladness? he asked. There are times the wind tempts me. But I have toes. Aground, to know what I must.