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The Perfect Slice
by James Dalton Byrd
Night gives way, as it should, and morning rises.
The last cold breath is held and all becomes still.
Geese fly over the lake and present their calls
But the water does not remember their names.
The early fog erases all boundaries.
Time is waiting for its new beginning.
A screen of pale gold wanting ink's dark caress
To show where water ends and where sky begins.
One brush stroke moving along Japanese silk,
The dream-maker gliding through realities.
A kayak becoming real, then, vanishing.
The phantom's wake whispering across the water.
Rocks sharing their faces with sky under sky
Waiting for the ripples to dance with their twins.
Then, so quickly, time removes the perfect slice.