Just now, under the aspen tree

you saw a spark

or a sunlit flash of wing


and thought of flight

and wonder


and then 

as your eager wind spun 

to meet not flame, nor feather

but tree

and leaf

and endings


you looked down.


It was almost a relief 

to fall, finally, and to land 


where you’d expected 

but gently

and with little fanfare


into these

arms of dirt and bone



like a drop

of shivery light


and held 

like smoke

or a gossamer web


between the dream’s 


and the bright fall 

of its form


to what waits beneath, 

and the remembering 


that whatever is caught

must first 

let go.

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