we are stars wrapped in skin
Beatific, he arrives —
Parts of him are solid heavy gold; undisguised and brazen. He is a small delicate thing of fragile bones and newness; haloed in perfection and stupid happiness. His heart is light and loving, and he talks to the bluebirds that sit overhead on a thin branch.
“Happy bird. Bluebird, bright new bird.” he coos and chirps. His own tongue is not above childish babbling, nonsensical and as musical as water in a brook flowing. Coming from a mouth small and boyish and always, always smiling. As stated, beatific.
Mother? He has one. She has made certain he is nourished but he is a hard child to contain. Not disobedient, just daft and prone to wandering off after a bee just because he likes the buzzing noise it makes. She gave up after calling for him to come back made no difference to him and watched his head and the halo bouncing above it disappear.
As for a father - he has one of those too, somewhere. Or he assumes he does. He’s never asked - horse dads don’t stick around much, and he’s never been upset or bothered by that. Or even by the fact that he doesn’t stick to his mother’s side, or have friends except for the sun high up in the sky.
Back to the angel-baby boy standing there, talking to a pair of bluebirds on a branch above his head —
Ozias, precious child, smiles oh so beautifully up at birds that don’t care and aren’t really paying him any mind at all.
OZIAS