a kestrel
manoeuvres
on the wing
high above, windward,
hovering.
the fork is as
it's been always,
where waters must
decide. there
the heart,
leafing elm,
lathe, lithe
energy and
spark; roosts
of swallows whir
and pitch and wheel,
coursing through
the falling light
like blood. bow
sinew and bone, of
your own
instincts how much
should you trust? only so
much as you must
follow through.
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