“We’re wearing feathers today,” Loki clicks his tongue.
I’m black, silken, down and flight-made.
He nuzzles my beak with his own.
We preen.
The air delights my every feather, begs me to discover it and be discovered.
“Two ravens in a wood,” he says.
“A mated pair,” I finish.
I become a bulb, pulling in the sunlight, minerals drawn down into my crown.
It feels pleasurable to hold and rest. Hold the sun. Hold the soil. Held and kept while holding, keeping layers of the sun. Full and heavy.
Asleep…
Stretching from the soil, bursting from my core, I am tendrils of green and stalk and flower bud. I breathe in the sky, ecstatic, alive. Light. Life. Sprinkle, fizzle, burst. A daffodil sprung gorgeous.
“I shapeshift,” Loki says, pollen dust shooting from his trumpet as I turn my golden-yellow face in shock and orgasm.
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