The Movement of Air in the Morning

Birds fly by me,
Each wing flapping,
Feathers pushing through the morning sky,
The cool air flows,
Swirls through the smog and the 8 am sounds.

Shimmering black bird wings move up and down,
A current of call and response,
Through clouds and drifts of fog,
Causing a rejoinder in my blood,
A beating in my cunt,
A throbbing of morning light,
Of bird flight and swoop,
The air inside me and outside me,
I now have wings to fly.

About Avery Cassell

Avery Cassell is a queer butch San Francisco writer, poet, cartoonist, and artist who grew up in Iran.
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