Little wings
should you?

Rain sweet air
crisp honey, go on
humidity slips
at the nape of your neck

I suck you into my lungs
spring night slipping
promises to the back of my tongue

We only begin to melt
in the heat before the heat
a prelude to the fire
the almost-touch brush of wings

In-between season
howl before the hunt of summer
days begin to seek our skin