A butterfly draws the last of the summer from yellow flowers.
Damsels and dragons have their conjugations warmed by the weakening sun.
The wind cackles around me as I pass through the reeds.
They transform its power into a flowing murmuration and like water it carries me on.
A hawk slips over the sea wall.
I see the shape of a crossbow.
It drifts effortlessly across the reed bed, flapping wings to lift it above the quarrelsome, tentative gulls and I watch with the autumn sun behind me.
It banks as perfect as any spitfire pilot and displays, for itself, for the gulls, for pure joy, or me.
Its plumage is detailed as clear as any tatoo. The bow is drawn back tight.
The world turns in days and seasons and the delight is mine.
