Whispers of Flight
Beneath the heat of the afternoon sun,
the sky sprawled wide and blue.
A lone figure stood,
gaze fixed upward, heart exposed,
watching the crows take to the air.
They moved like shadows,
dark against the endless stretch,
each flap a muted thud,
each caw a distant challenge,
the air heavy with unspoken potential.
They spiraled and swooped,
a chaotic dance,
both fierce and fluid.
The wind carried murmurs,
and the crows,
ancient keepers of secrets,
brought tales of what had faded,
of dreams that lingered in twilight,
of laughter that once rang through the trees.
The figure mused,
What if I could seize their flight,
turn their wildness into something real,
a melody of feathers and freedom,
where each call became a note from the sky,
a fusion of earth and air?
The notes fluttered like leaves,
each one a heartbeat,
a pulse of life.
Fingers poised over an unseen piano,
the figure envisioned the keys,
ivory and ebony,
responding to the weight of sound,
as the crows spun their magic,
a song etched on the breath of the wind,
a wild serenade to the sun.
In that fleeting moment,
the world faded into the periphery,
the ordinary slipped from view,
and all that remained
was the flight of the crows,
the echo of their voices,
the promise of a song,
waiting to break free,
waiting to be sung,
in the clear blue sky,
where dreams dared to rise.
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