Evening, the tea’s steam fingering the air,

the house martins return,gracefully taunting

my dreams of flight, so I attach

ribbons to each and give motion a history,

rise and peak, decline and fall.

Above the balcony or over the far off

they’re a single gentle curl of black paint,

that takes a lifetime to perfect,

 

This moment is so complete,

I could hold it between my thumb and forefinger,

 

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