Someone told me that during evolution
fish scales turned into bird feathers,

which perhaps explains why birds
emerge wet from their shells,

pecking their way out of water
to breathe, and eventually fly,

in mere air. Though we are not
born with feathers, humans, too,

come into the world wet, and,
breathing, with luck and time, fly—

at least metaphorically, if not
in planes—given wings for

the journey, which, though we
cannot see them, I like to think

unfurl at our endings, when we
shake them out as butterflies do,

perhaps feeling the lift before
the newborns rise, having no idea

where they’re going, creatures
of the air, not needing to know.

•••

With thanks to Molly Fisk for the prompt
that became the first stanza.