takeoff ovenbird I wonder if this is what dying is like–the airborne pieces of me moving through liquid sky, a cirrus river rushing overhead, then rebirth into blinding light. I think I could abide such a death, if it was gentle enough, if the air currents stayed stable beneath my broken wings. I could turn my face to my life's last sun and go willingly into its searing gleam, but only if you promise to meet me in the place where we can shed our bodies like snow-heavy coats, and discover who we are under all the weight of living. 260219 what's it to you? who go blather from