I take great satisfaction in the flight
Of summer swallows, swerving as they go,
Rising and falling like a string-bound kite,
Ascending to the clouds then skimming low
To kiss the lake where pleasure-boaters row.
Like thoughts that will not settle, ranging free,
They are constant in their inconstancy.
When beauty is made visible to eye
It runs the risk inherent in all things
Whose form we cherish, knowing they will die.
And so the swallows touch me with their wings
That are not merely ordinary wings,
But serve to lift my circumscribed plain sight
While also lifting swallows in their flight.
©2016 Michael Fraley
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