Winging It

birds of a quill, or a feather flock together at odd times from all four corners of thinking creative to jostle with keyboards, pens and sharp pencils fingers fidget, tap-tapping frantic scribbling down in notebook's lined pages screens and keyboards prepare for posting all that flutters in skulls staring blank-eyed into spaces behind temples hot throbbing turns tensile to tactile steely minds become strings unhinged yet synaptic as typists happily fly out of the window out doing much undoing with words, concrete stacks of thoughts buried in letters homing in on ideas is noted by fraught-filled grey matters e-motions will ruffle, jostle, shuffle trying to find their feet on narrow high perches no one cooped up again in confounded wired places safety in numbers protects from eagle-eyed predation teeming teams have no trepidation preening each other pecking order in order while who's who is related faithful fair friends love being updated lovebirds are word-cooing with beak-kissing nibbles some of us like darkness it brings poets together winter hibernation in torpor taking wing in springing up ether fancy that take off? it's what we are made of.... all that really matters when feathers start flying is the daylight between them caused not by division but the tight act of trying to avoid mid-air collision! 13/10/2018 Poets need poets....enough "space" for all of us!