What does she see, with broken wings. So used to fluttering in clouds. What does she see, now that she hides beneath the flowers blooms. So used to staring down. What does she see, staring up and staring out. That once was invisible to her eyes, as she lies flat on ground with broken wings. Is everything the same as it was before, or does everything look so very different? Does she long for her wings to heal, or is she fascinated terribly enough for the moment to simply be. To be where she is, and what she is, at moment now and this.
Is she afraid when the rain comes down, in lines and streams, winding round the space she sits upon. Is it fear within her tiny gaze, as drop by drop comes barraging down like crystal balls with the force of cannonballs. Or if she too busy lost in the wonder of it, unable to escape from within it and captivated by it now instead. Or does she merely wait out the storm and her broken wings and take to the sky again completely oblivious to anything but what for her is normal.
Or does she venture fourth, into momentary great unknown and capture it within her looks, painting it upon her skin and letting it wash upon her.