The still air
carries the mournful sound
of a lone flute.

A symphony
lurks between the feathers
in the flutter
of a bird as it springs into flight.

The oars
stroke through
reflective dark water
ripples sound like wet whispers
sliced by the prow
of a small boat afloat.

The sun
comes after its GPS hour
as the new day begins to inflate,

but past the slim moment
of horizon’s brave breach,
it trips
its own light fantastic
as with dancing toes
impossibly fleet.

This entry was posted in Medium Length Poems, Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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