When she was young,
she looked for omens
in birds circling overhead.

Her youth was spent
pretending to be a crow,
holding dark pennae sacred.

Discipline taught her
to become a hawk,
predatory in every advance.

Then she was left
without any feathers
when the sky turned against her.

In the mornings, she cries
softly into her pillow,
and it sounds like birdsong.


Penned by my hand on the 17th of Phaestian, in the year 1002 AF.