alfie lee writing


a kestrel

on the wing

high above, windward,

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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