Soar

Ungainly form, that of wings and bony mouth parts.
She hovers unpredictably as the invisible currents sway and scours over painted lines for all our morsels. A crusted stone of deep fried batter, a gummy rubble of trampled nuts.
For all the glory and grace attributed to flight, an observer can't help smirking or scoffing. Flapping is ugly and the staggered descent of a hovering body reminds me of climbing down a ladder.
And from the earth, in the path of intersection, that approach is threatening.
Crazed, mindless glass eyes in that feathered head don't seem to absorb so much as project, stressing madness into the air around them.
Those looming wings...
Useless feet dangling in the transparent sky...
It's unearthly. There is nothing that grinds at the innate comprehension inside me as does that flight. Unpowered, unreal. Hanging like puppets. Staring like statues.
My jealousy and anger and fear form bitter condensation on my skin at the passing.
Hearts were not meant to soar like that.