wings:  same bones as in a hand, stretched by years of looking at the sky.  race of birds with thin wings of canvas, where it rains water colors, soft saturating skin, sky drawn, painted by weather, and the sun shines through, projecting chromatic, luminous shadows on gray stone. there is no propulsion, strength; their wings don’t move, except to find angles, like sails of ships, horiziontal, because air rises from the earth, streaming from compression, and they cup and ride its currents, lifted upwards; their wings only guide them to other streams, geyser breathing, and by these choices, navigations, they hang perpetually aloft—they are anathema to earth. 

links: bones, ship