on lusty scrape of wind, she soars to settle, hushed,
too dense with lilt of pine and sun to rise anew
her satin feathers rest yet fluoresce air, unrushed,
with languid fragrant breath of slow perfume
tainted wild and wrestled from wind and shadowed sky
and froth of flagrant tempests yet to bloom
she’s harbinger, soul-singer, soothsayer, spy our mothers’ muse shining through stygian gloom.