Writing Poetry: Wings

Over coffee, Agnes mentions mist rising off the frozen river.

Later I experience a moment of clarity while making the bed. Sometimes when this happens, there is a sense of something spreading out from between my shoulder blades. Like wings. Only much more. The feeling makes me think of the gradual transitions of light at dusk and dawn. Perhaps ice turning to mist, returning to cloud. An invisible unfurling.

It happens within seconds. Comes and goes.