Happy Birthday, Eleanor.

Before all else, nothing was coincidental. Each avian felt a deep, reflexive understanding of their place like guests at a numbered party table. Seventy-one of them, Eleanor counted in gleeful shock. She had almost forgotten the age she was turning. Seventy-one, she recited in her head. She clung to the number like a beloved memento.  



“I’ve become the blue-hearted tactician

Who wishes to peel the muscle from their backs

And shape them outward to turn to wings.”