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