Ever the misfit, a wary sight, by many close encounters that sting an imprint. Sure it seems - quite soon even stale- an inevitable expiry, swooning to a collision.
These were the moments that forlorn and misery may be over the shoulder.
A Wednesday morning - humming- a tune positive and guaranteed blues tooting a mystical momentus number. "wicked", flurry in the air.
There swooped U-Turned, a feather flock in the good moods of wingman. Eyes followed the squadron to a scroll backwards to The Eight Knight. Making that a double take, eyes wondering to rolling in slow blinks.
Unsure brooding, not an exact bread of a baker's dozen. The breed of wicked vandal blackbird was different to the squadrons petit crumbles.
These add-hoc calls made flights quite frequent. For long, it can forlorn.
Then, missions presented itself to a dynamic lifting. When asked.
"What air about this upward gust ?", a solemn flutter.
A Fly-bye. Sudden though unforgettable.
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