I woke to a clattering of feathers outside my window. A mad brushing against the glass, a panic of pinions beating furiously, trying to follow the sunlight that blithely shone through the solid transparency.
Silver wings beat against the glass with a delicate fear, feathers extended like clawing fingers. But this was all I saw. What had awoken me with its weight of inconsequence, its agitation that was so pitiable, yet so exquisite?
Perhaps it was the heel of Hermes' winged sandals that brushed against my honored window sill. With a mind full of Greek cartography leading from the clouds to the earth and arms full of Olympian messages, couldn't a god stumble?
Or maybe it was a falcon, weary of fetching for kings. Shaking off its golden bells and tearing away its leather bands, it flew towards my little window. Centuries sang through its wings as it sought the fragile haven: past history and beyond time – now nothing more than mere numbers in the air. Its grimacing talons bit into the wooden frame that protested with broken paint and splinters.
But what if those frothy wings came from another source? What if, just beyond my yearning vision, there was an ocean teaming with life and muscle? With tendons and bone stretched into a mythological quest and diamond hooves sparking against the homely walls, Pegasus had fallen out of the sky.
The atmosphere around his crystal skin was charged with lightning, and his ivory head was encased in Bellerophon's golden bridle.
It could have been any of these things. But before I could get out of bed, the frail enigma was gone. So – fortunately – I will never know what it was.