Pteorodactyl

I roost on my crag,
An aged reptile
Wrapped in leathery wings,
Gazing down at the feathered ones
Gliding in courtship circles below.

My eye is old,
More ancient than its socket.
I know I am the last of my line –
No mate or egg warms my nest.
An oversized chick of another species
Takes the food I hunt.

She presents to me “mere vans to beat the air”
Where wings should be –
So I can never push her out into the void.

And never quest the higher peaks
In search of my kin -
“Why should the aged eagle stretch its wing”?

A frozen chrysalis,
I wrap myself in flightless wings
And stare at the pageant below.  

September comes and still I am here.