Life is a storm of wings sometimes, all the bright, beautiful colors on the wind swooping and swirling around me. Elegant women with gorgeous feathers stride through the streets, drawing the eye of every human man- bright reds and blues of visitors from happier climes, even the homely perfection of your girl-next-door sparrow made radiant by the burst of feathered wings sprouting from underneath a just-so dress.

No one knows why it started, or how, or where the winged women came from. Maybe they've always been here, the girl at the counter smiling and shuffling her pack of orange sodas across the dingy plastic of the 7-Eleven, with the tip of a wing, like some vision of paradise. Even here, in the early November snow, already dirty and browned with the stain of city life.

But now the streets teem with life on them and above them, the happy, birdsong voices mixed with lower notes of cheer from human lovers.

I see them- there she is, the cockatoo harpy with her sweet song and mischievous eyes, fluttering excitedly up around her earthbound husband as they stroll through the park. Inside the stroller he pushes, the flash of tiny, yellow wings wave at the world with happy coos. There, behind them, an elegant snowbird with a man who's seen his share of life, like two silver visions of how life and love are supposed to do. They're not too old for that flush when they look at each other, her pealing laugh and his gravely kiss mingling together.

Even the bearded young man with his coke-bottle glasses seems to have been drawn in to the happy storm, some instrument case slung over one shoulder while a sparrow in shabby splendor lays her head on the other.

All of them, beautiful in their own way, the flurry of wings made to cut the air drawing out the things that make even human hearts take flight.

And you, my crow girl. Wrapped up in a sweater on the last subway of the night, book propped up like a shield against the world and scarf pulled tight to shield your eyes. You, with your shock of inky black spreading from your shoulders. I can imagine them, those wings pulled softly around my back, the frame made for flight trembling in my warmth as I give you a kiss.

You're beautiful. Not even in your own way, the consolation prize for the ugly. Beautiful, full stop, with the eyes I could fall forever into and the way your feet tap-tap-tap to the turn of a page. The pale curve of a cheek, a flash of your eyes, from behind a volume covered in feathers, and the dusky splendor of your voice when you mutter to yourself.

You, my crow girl. The one I've noticed tucked away in the corners of the world, our paths crossing more than chance permits. Curled up on the subway, true, but flying in my imagination.

So...

Is this seat taken?

Kinks: Monster girls, magical realism. Cute, happy sex of any and all varieties.

DPP profile