Okyra (okyra)

She touched the feather lying in the mud. Delicate and out of place, yet perfectly part of it all. Even fragility can rest firmly in the wild.

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Rain rehearsed elegies against the roof, every drop a vowel moaning through tin. I pressed my ear to the hymn and thought: lament is holy when sung by water—it baptizes as it buries, composing requiems that rinse the dust off roots desperate to sprout in the gospel of gray.

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Beneath a vault barbed with stars sprawls tundra, ribs polished to chrome by wind. Wolves suture its silence with songs bleeding copper, and I kneel, shivering bright as glass, because even prayers cut throats when their syllables sharpen on hunger.

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I passed a patch of earth where nothing grew, just rock and soil and the remains of something scorched. And still, it didn’t feel empty. It felt honest. Like a body that’s been through fire and isn’t trying to hide it. I stood there longer than I expected, just listening.

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