the man leans heavy-handed
with his garden glove against
the rake he's used the entire day
and lifts weary lids to gaze up
into the cloudless blue void
watching wishfully for a sign of shade
but instead his eyes lay hold
of a single shape soaring overhead
whose wings bring it close
and its beauty is beheld before
it leaves the man's eyes empty again
but not wanting more from the moment
because he knows the the beauty
was never in the bird itself
but in the freedom of its flight.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
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