I analyze the synchronized motion of our wings
In harmony, up and down; repeat.
We have matching florescent colors and patterns
Tattooed on our wings
Most categorize us as “the same” but I
Am much more than the classification of your stereotype.
The beautiful thoughts weaving in and out
My mind has no limit, no translation, syllable
No painting can illustrate such magical creations
No point of the finger can mumble, “The same.”
I have always been the bird who found much
joy while flying away from the flock
not because I didn’t like flying with company
but because I am a bird of passion and love
lucky enough to have known