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By Cheryl Snell
We nudged the shoreline with bare toes
while a bank of swans glided past, wind-
ruffled necks arched in perpetual query.
We had no answers, sitting on the ground,
legs tucked under us. Sunlight glinted
off the waves, stretching skyward
as the afternoon passed into silence
and settled deep in our cells.
On a distant day grown hectic with storms,
a detail will emerge —white birds skimming
silver water, the scent of olive leaves bruised
between our fingers—to catch us off-guard,
startled by the ease with which the past
reassembles: bid it come here and it does.
(first appeared in kaleidowhirl)