High and low
my arms stream wildly
for the moment when I
can be temporarily sustained
above the valley floor
and the black tops,
slick with rocks and
gravel leftover from the rain,
scattering across the
palms of my hands
where the nimbus bellows out of reach,
no engine to convene,
or metallic wings to hover
alongside the real thing,
grey feathers and down,
skimming along the edge of the lake,
the sky simmering down over the water
turns it a mossy green,
the slight bob of a bird's body
connecting little intricacies
over wind-chime pines and
the hollow bellies of other trees,
it will touch down as a passing thought,
as human hands and feet.
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