Birds, Fighting

I became angry when he opined on my relationship with my mom.
I flew into a falling bird's tumble. A soft scratch on my outer wings.
Were it not for this new rage I'd be glum. Rounder. And fuzzy like all my pulled sweaters.

Is it time for us to fight?
It is. There is no way around it.

Before it happened I was plumper like I said and could never jog off my jiggle then somehow my wings/legs toughened.
I could not do what rage did to me
I could not replicate a missing like the one I had now.

Perhaps the jiggle was sexier.

Echoed back within our nest, I tore into worms, seeds, soft tree fruit. Punctured their skins and plucked a nutrient. Rage. I awoke in many suns not singing but shrieking. Unblinking loss. I went from shapeless to a necessary form. I'm a woman now with a wingspan longer than predicted.

Can I hold him in it? A small protective place? If there's room, it can only be made when I dash out holes back-lit by the moon.   Tiny places echoing from larger ones.

Swallow a song. Keep it just between us. Your initial plumage won me but it is your wounds that intrigue me.