i. Quetzalcoatlus, ventral view, mounted on platform

A
reptile
is kin
to bird,
at times,
named after one,
given a wingspan
estimated at
10m or more,
bodies
as big
as planes,
convergent
evolution
among
vertebrates that soar on updrafts of warm air.
Winged Quetzalcōātl, sister to wind—I found a version etched in stone, stunning fossil
of human imagination.
But the pterosaur
is real, or was—
skeleton turned to stone
by the writhing countenance of time,
fleeced skin    stretched over
articulated bones      combined from
many beasts         to form a deity
inhabiting the           scientist’s mind

as if, in that hidden landscape of primordial palms,
a feathered serpent could stretch fibers in the membrane
of a wing
to take flight.

ii. Late Cretaceous

The sky is on fire, scarlet feathers
trailing a growing orb on the horizon,
the rumble so deep it resonates in bone,
first the flash, then the shock.

Those that fly will fall out of the sky
and the world will choke on ash
while the broken stone beyond
the rim, the ridged wings
of Chicxulub’s impact
slowly erode into
drowned doors,
cenotes that
open to
gods

iii. The Serpent God

When the serpent
god returned to
Tenochtitlán,
the sky    was full of flame, temples
burned,
the cauldron
of Lake Texcoco boiled
to salt. When the god left, brilliant birds
flew before him.

iv. The flying dragon

Her plumage adorns
the heads of men who consider
themselves divine—
Quetzal,      check box on my life list.

The bird dwells in  cloud forests,
I climbed mountains,
listened to wind,
but could not spot her,
bright medicine
for souls who find
joy in the mythic.

She forages for berries and frogs,
depends on breeding holes
in dead trees, incubating new life
from a dark passage.

If I close my   eyes, I can see her
pipping the     world-shell to emerge
from the crater   flames
have made,  from
a rotted
nest of
ancestry.

The membrane
of her wing
lifts,
blue
veins visible
beneath
a parchment
of skin.

Her beak
parts,
gape so wide,
she devours
legends.