If I was to run, where would I run to? I tried running last year. It was not for me. I ran around and around the reservoir near our home and I saw swallows flying radii and diameters, mocking me.

I run now into pages of words. The singularities the small pieces of a meaningful jigsaw take flight in the air around my desk, even as I try to tame them in paragraphs and lines of type.

Feathers float across the margins… sharp seed husks pierce the dog’s skin… hungry mouths and a tired soul await the swallow’s return.

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