Yesteryear Fiction

The song of the oh-so-narrowly missed again and again
By E.S. Wynn


Wings enfolded in wings enfolded in wings. Light touch and soft golden white clean light is streaming, touching, touches, hands lips and wings. Press of fabric, skin. I see-feel her, am her, two as one, indistinguishable, tip to tip. In yoga poses she is stretching, being, moving, being, breathing, being. Stretched out smiling in sun. Soft skin, soft light. I smile, feel so close, feel the touch of wings even through meaningless distance.


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E.S. Wynn sees flashes in the darkness. Once, he saw rain. Once, he saw wolves. The third time, he saw wings.