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The ledge is where it begins and ends. She feels her slip rise, her rusted wings quiver into use. She knows the wind has a language of its own too. Its trusted wet tongue fills its mouth. She could never put it back together in time. She recoiled, unblooming like the moon daisy at dawn. The moon remains unconcerned, her faces stare as blank as snow. She forgets her past, her future stunted too. She's seen enough, she's sure. Her black eyes frail from overuse. Like the Earth, she is old before her time. As a graffitied flower, she feels impure. in her forever empty nest the ghosts of unhatched eggs press their little faces to the window, their shallow breaths trying to frost the glass. She is the mother of dust, draped in cobwebs thick as dirt. She slips it back. She has known the outside too well. At last, she tries to fly.