The Birds

As both of you stand there, they come
so close to, then fall down invisible peaks
into Lake Ontario, unwrapping
into statements of aquamarine, stretching
into runway-spines of, say, books,
or fields of lupin flattened inside,
and farness reducing them
to insects and bees.
You like when she says,
“Why the changing lines of colours?”
and you, “wind paints them.”
You like to lay down beside the woman.
And reach for her. But you know how things are,
being a man and being a woman,
each slipping into their course, courses,
love, together, only a body
while it has two wings.
Instead, both of you, together,
watch the wild and orderly trajectory of birds,
nearly feather to feather,
the way a boy or a girl can be awed simply
by the slapstick shapes of a clothesline,
strewing low and distant,
shadows becoming shadows
of shadows.

– ph 30/5/17 QEW between Toronto and Hamilton

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