convergent lines of longing,
two frost-white trails 
written on the blind,
azure eye of heaven,
how long before they meet,
these high,
angelic travellers?
how long?
and where will they touch
down again
the warm,
ever turning earth?

south by southeast
by the suns declension,
acute the angle closing,
arcing through the blue lens
of the familiar domain,
the air sack that sustains
the water spider
in his sunken secret lair.
how long?
how long will it be?
and when will they rest
at last,
after their long,
ethereal journey?

there is providence
in the fall of sparrows.
there are significant lillies
in scriptural fields,
and who can deny
solomon in his finery?
on the high spine
of a suburban roof,
a nondescript bird
pours forth its
eloquent soul
into the
beautiful blue,


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