Zebra Seeking Spoons

The bird does not wait

for the wing to mend.

She lifts herself anyway,

a crooked rhythm in the air,

one side beating strong,

the other trailing like a scar.

The sky does not ask her

to be perfect,

only present.

She circles unevenly,

but the horizon still welcomes her,

and the wind carries what she cannot.

Every flight is proof—

that broken does not mean grounded,

that fragments can still rise,

that survival is a kind of grace

all its own.