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,