I slide my Converse off and perch in half-lotus on the armless chair. (I used to sit cross-legged but now I practice yoga.) Ribs spiral away from the spine; I inhale. Exhale, ribs roll in. Spiral away, roll in. Away. In. Away.
Through the skylight, no cirriform wisp, no crows; simply cerulean until the leaf. Lop-sided descent, dipping more, swinging high, crisp brown edges, dry veins, frail. Until the little drunken boat lands on the skylight.
Last month Dad shed his body for flight. Away.