Flap

A long wing stretches
Across the whole sky.
Clearly, we’re dealing
With reality.

The wing’s not attached
To any biped,
Furrred or feathery,
But it has feathers,

Tilting between white
And a darkish grey.
It bends, gathering
For a stroke, wingbeat.

Why does everything
In realism
Have to be like this
Wing covering things?