Poem: The Story-tellers

Huddled, our plumed bodies curve
in arabesque.  Convex vertebrae
are charms; they
ward off the dark and cold.

We pass tales like glass
marbles back-and-forth,
in pinched beaks.  Friction
warms our palms, our words.

Prometheus, have pity.
Breath ignites 
salvaged kindling, a spark
as hot as a pin-prick.

Now we chant each others' stories,
a noisome flock in blanketing
gray and whisper a rumor
of dawn.

P.J. Lynch, The Six Swans

This is the second draft, much changed (and better, I hope), from the first.

Still, this is not quite hitting the spot of what I want to do with it.  The third stanza limps.  I'm trying to find a way of showing how the friction of passing the stories back and forth ignites a spark.  And I like the pin-prick, like when you get stung by the spark from a sparkler, but I don't know how to use it.

I wanted to say something about "a benediction."

Oh well.  I guess now I should just let it sit.

Comments, constructive crit.?  Please and thank you.

Please take a look at our fairy tale writing contest and consider joining.  I'm thinking of extending the deadline, if you've seen and are hesitant because of lack of time.