oxbow creek
I search for the right turn
of phrase
evening primrose
we open ourselves up
to the night
juvenile kite
rainy days are made
for flying
horizon line
a splinter of sunset
in the black swan's bill
fine-tuning
my internal rhythms
to earth's hum,
I find a frequency
designed just for me
white columns
of trapped bubbles rise
under lake ice . . .
we skate over the turrets
of mythical castles
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