Fairy

A fairy crossed a wet flower at the size of a thumb. Wings lit from within. The glen held still around that small flight, as if a larger body would have broken it. People who saw the light did not speak until they were well down the path, a fairy gift already caught in the eye. It returns in fairy playing cards no bigger in the mind than that flower, in a fairy notebook with a margin left for something winged, in a fairy postcard of the glen at the hour the light crossed. The flower closes. The wing does not.