Maybe being winged means being wounded by infinity.
Name the shape and they have assumed it. Starting arrow-like, collapsing, rounding, smoothing into sphere. Last night an onyx orchid became a sky-broad chest, inhaling and exhaling. This morning, quickened by light, they weaved a feathered wreath, then filled and molded into the door on which it should be hung. I have found countless ways to enter. These are not clouds, but their living shadows, tailored with the ink-dark staccato of wing beats. The sun is yolk suspended in sound.
flying deep in its flock