Descended from dragons

Bird in the window greeting me. Fluttering of wings again and again alighting on the blade of a yucca tree, fluttering close to the prism in the window.  The chillón, a small gorrión, or sparrow, comes into the field of the effect of my struggle to free my wings, newly hatched from the dragon's egg.  This amniotic, this liquid, so turgid, so sticky, so adherently strong, would keep my wings down, sealed to my body, my side, but instinctively I follow the pull through the pain and rigor to free my wings—I have come a long way already from crouching and cringing and turning away in deep contraction, not knowing who I was, only shame. I have turned away,  to allow the contraction, and the deep growl errupting from my throat, to growl, to growl, to growl allowed the first taste of exquisite delicate freedom to arise with the heat expanding through my chest, arms, into my hands... this chillón gorrión sparrow recognized my plight, she too is a descendent of dragons, and has come to show me the next step—flight, as she flits, flits, flits back and forth, lighter than air, at the window, coming up ot the glass,  again and again, as I begin to raise my wings, and discover my spine.