For days, every-which-way I go ...
mourning doves. Billing & cooing
on telephone lines. Filling trees
like a muted cacophony
of crows. This morning one wooing
pair flew overhead, their lithe wings
scything the March air into strips
of sound - a flywheel wanting oil.
They make me want to lace on skates
again, for the first time in years:
to scrape that stultifying sheath
of rust from dull, distempered blades
& - scintillating thought! - the love
of my life on my arm once more,
to slice streams of sky-white ribbon
from a sequin-rich sheet of ice.
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