She too could not outdistance or erase

the echo of a voice,

the sound of laughter

the bubbling flash of mischief

in some one's eyes,

even the silhouette

etched by the sun,

one hand halfway upraised,

as though to speak

in its own silent language,

a last farewell.

Lost in the pincer grip

of an old yearning

that should have been

so long ago outrun,

she thought again

of an emerald bird -

and how, long, long

after it was gone,

a fugitive green feather,

delicate as lace,

somehow, drifting downward,

brushed her face.

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