Ania Rose
The girl with black wings blows on a tiny instrument in her hands, the sound like a quiet foghorn. She looks at me, I who watch her, and her eyes wonder what I think of her uniqueness or maybe she is nervous that I'm paying attention. I glance away first, not wanting to offend. I wonder about her purpose, adorned in such a way on this beautiful afternoon. Where is she wanting to fly? Maybe she has no desire at all and she's already here, comfortable with herself, walking winged through these streets so others can remember, hey, this is what flying is like.
