Each morning, they rose from the Father’s shoulders,
ink-borne shadows against a paling sky.
One carried memory,
the other, thought—
but neither ever returned unchanged.
They crossed forests of silence,
oceans that swallowed truth,
and the trembling chambers of men
who thought themselves kings.
From their beaks fell whispers,
half-formed, half-feared:
fragments of worlds undone,
promises that bound themselves to bone.
The Father listened.
He did not command—
for what god commands
what he cannot unhear?
And still the wings beat on—
over fields not yet sown,
over battles not yet named,
toward a horizon no eye could master.
When the sun fell,
and the sky bruised into black,
they returned—
but only one ever came whole.
The other
was always lost,
always dying,
always flying still.
Reade Saunders 
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