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  • It is the migrating season.
    I look up and spy a string in the sky...
    the end of a balloon? But no,
    look closer, and I see bodies separated
    by a thin slice of air.

    From here, they are just one body.
    A long, slow limb that arcs across the sky,
    not even the sky, but the cosmos, from that height.

    They are traversing more than just this realm.
    They are cutting swaths through Spirit.

    It strikes me that birds
    might never have this vantage point
    from which to view themselves.
    They might never be able to appreciate
    the aesthetic beauty of their form
    as one.

    I wonder if animals feel the same way about us.
    Ants, looking up,
    must think a lot of a single digit,
    the aesthetic possibilities
    of a fingertip.

    I suppose we are all here for each other.
    A bird is not a bird without the
    possibility of this arc,
    that only the human can see.

    We are not who we are until
    we are witnessed from a variety
    of angles.
    Our curves given form
    in relation to sea, sky, animal, plant.
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