Each night he awakens to the sound of great wings flapping. Of feathers, the weight of worlds, pushing against air. They beat exactly in time to the drum of his heart. Clouds part and in the blue of moonlight she appears, hovering over his crib. He moves to stand then, in silence; to gaze up in awe and what he understands to be the beginning of Love.
The room grows cold from the heights she's descended, her wings powdered with frost. From her downy undulation, the icey residue of meteorites and frozen stardust turn his cheeks ruddy.
Come the dawn, he will not recall her winged flight. Her face will remain but a dream.
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