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Shadle800MagnificentFrigatebird
Shadle800MagnificentFrigatebird
Shadle800MagnificentFrigatebird
Shadle800MagnificentFrigatebird
Shadle800MagnificentFrigatebird
Shadle800MagnificentFrigatebird
Shadle800MagnificentFrigatebird
Shadle800MagnificentFrigatebird
Shadle800MagnificentFrigatebird
Shadle800MagnificentFrigatebird

Frigatebird

by Bill Beigel

White and black wings, almost mirage and full-breathing shadow

Spinning, skimming arabesque above the water

The slightest turn to the surface of the wings

A radical shake and shift in flight and speed and balance and more balance

Right-angle-sharp wing tips leave their course in the water

For only the briefest glance of a second, maybe it is just a fast joke

As fleeting as everything else on and under the sea

Except the colors, without argument

The sunken, deep, dirty, sun-flashed green

Yes, or the naked, laughing blue that mirrors the sky,

Or the slate blue that mirrors pure blue above, storm clouds sentenced to the tropics this season

Of the seasons that we live

The black sea at night that mirrors the Moon and Venus, to their surprise and delight

And I’m racing with the frigatebird

Across the water that isn’t always there, and the faster I go the more I notice and the less I understand

About everyone else that races.

 And I wonder who races faster than me?

The clouds in the storm?

The dolphins, as if they are real, and their cuts and jabs against their liquid life

The mute and forgotten and intestate current, that starts in another sea,

pulled by the Moon, if the moon wishes to dance at this ball?

Or the frigatebird that I saw

Almost a mirage, black and white spinning

The hard, dark beat of its wings against the flat, black, hiding place of the sea

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