Changeling

Feather waves, indigo ripples
into amber like a burnt sun,
quasar tendrils shining.
Prisms of green - Mint, Mantis,
moving from Moss to Mud.
I am worn thin; aural vibrations crack
me open at the sternum,
cells blossoming in heat.

There is magic, and then there is
here. I almost forget there are others
beneath our leafy kaleidoscope.

I turn back to my feather but she is gone.
How long have I been standing here?
No one knows, so we build fires
and burn our own trails.
"What if there is no other side?"
Palms sweaty with anticipation,
We grip branches like baseball bats,
leaves exploding like confetti.

Weeds too thick to leave footprints-
we move quickly, spreading us markers
to echo how far we've come.