Back they sputter like the fires of love, the bees to their broken home Which they’re putting together again for dear life, knowing nothing Of the heart beating under their floorboards, besieged here, seeking A life of its own. All day their brisk shadows zigzag and flicker Along a whitewashed gable,
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The Life So Short...
and larks rising out of dead grass and lambs antiphonal between rocky outcrops and the discreet one-note charm of the willow warbler wishing itself into invisibility between sally trees where desperate with its own single-mind intent the yellow-eyed red-tail kite (still an edgy fledgling) prepares to put into lethal play its own unforgiving art by twitching one nervous feather after another in the precious seconds before lift-off