The Aerial Memory of the Wing

When the swift shadow of a feather
cleaves the ethereal calm of breath,
the air bends, like a silent mist,
receiving the gesture, an invisible turn.

No trace remains, nor a dense tremor,
only an absence barely more subtle,
the void filled with an intimate sense,
the echo of a light and fleeting style.

Yet, in that non-place which now yields,
an ephemeral imprint, without weight,
the trail of a movement that no one sees,
the liquid veil drawn back to itself.