Flying Squirrel

He stretches his body, air-bound silk,  

leaping into a void shaped by bark,  

the limbs holding up the green sky,  

each vertebra a prayer of motion,  

a lunge between lives, one branch,  

then the next—we gasp, watching  

his trust stretch, the winged membrane  

arching like a whisper between trees.  

Night tastes his flight, soft furred,  

tawny against the moon's round face,  

his ribcage bends, curving for flight  

that lands as if gravity forgot him.  

We, earth-heavy, marvel at his glide,  

each leap a breath we cannot take,  

a story told only the wind can carry,  

his body flexing against its freedom.