Taking winged form and vanishing out the glass. Only a moment and yet it stays. Planted deep the breath that grows from the empty space. Some twisting and crawling through the black, And others vast and total as rainstorms. Each its worth made clear in hindsight. No time to catch it. Only time to walk straight through. Unknowing of the end or if it will come. Always knowing that these winged things are the things of devastating wonder. We dare not choose them; Ours is the choice to write them down.