Flight
Birds have hollow bones. In numbers, they make shapes like shadows that live. A murmuration. That’s what it’s called. The word sounds soft, like whispers, heartbeats. Those birds turn air from nothing into something solid, something with weight like a hand on my shoulder, like my name on your mind. Something light, something heavy. I’m not going anywhere with this but to say that everything is light, and everything is heavy, even when it seems like nothing’s there.
Cimmerian Tales 