For the twentieth day of National Poetry Month, I have a little poem about flying. There is something about fliers I love, both the joy of losing oneself in the clouds but also the freedom to move. As a young one, I adored stories about races with wings. I even had a go-to favorite race of elves (my mithral elves from my old D&D world) that had wings.

In Flight of the Scions, I always had the plan to make Maris a flier. How it turned out, the casual collateral damage with an unexpected and happy part of her personality. This poem was written with her in mind, though it would probably be something that happens between the second and third book.

Wisps of Clouds

the rip of wind across the face
of bugs in teeth
and tears in eyes
the ache of breathing far too hard
and the pressure of flying too fast

always rising higher to the sun
until the warmth burns
and the lungs strain
to keep breathing

the taste of lightning
the wisp of clouds all around
the caress of moisture

plummet down
racing for the ground

faster, always faster