Atomic Citrocity


Paleontologists can’t seem to agree about how the ancestors figured out flight. Maybe early birds in early trees decided to take a flying leap and, after a few thumps, they figured out it hurt less to spread their forelimbs and glide. Maybe they ran along the ground chasing food, getting faster and faster for generations, until feathers and a fateful hop wobbled them up.

Poets can’t seem to agree about how wings figure into the human condition, either. We don’t have them; therefore, we must long for them. We scribble them into myths of migration and gods and mischief.  Grace and gravity. Angels, with their fickle hollow bones.

But we can all agree that the air is changing.  Something is moving through. We can tell by the beating of wings, above and behind us.






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