It's something quite uncommon
amongst the wings of our small sun.
We adjust our measures to what’s found
strain to see, wings are white and dun.
Green gaze sizes up an omen
a regard that’s direct, precise, profound.
My eyes are all tears and flaw
my head bears its tipsy vertigo roll
cursing the limits of my prospect where
vision construes a fully other soul
appreciates the danger claw
that it’s not feather green up there.
Though sunshine makes the scene turn gay
I feel the mark, of being prey.