Flight

The long fingers

Trace the curve of the lips

The smoothness of the chin

There is the pulse in the neck that make her perfume throb in your nostrils

Flaired and eyes narrow

Ready to pounce on his prey

She breathes a dove-like coo

Clinching her shoulder with strong fingers

Talons

Caught

The bodies stiffen as his flight down reaches it zenith

Then repose.

WBA Januay 7, 2009